


An Idyll in Gunpowder

by MontmartreParapluie



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 87,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5941615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontmartreParapluie/pseuds/MontmartreParapluie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Setauket in 1775 is a place where nothing as it seems. Stirring uneasily under the occupation of the regiment, even peddlers of illusion and misdirection can become hopelessly lost in the mire of deceit, lies, and desperate secrets ... Set before Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dramatis Personae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we lay our scene in backwater Setauket. New acquaintances are made, and old tensions rise...

_But as the slightest Sketch, if justly trac'd,_  
_Is by ill Colouring but the more disgrac'd,_  
_So by false Learning is good Sense defac'd._  
_Some are bewilder'd in the Maze of Schools,_  
_And some made Coxcombs Nature meant but Fools_.

Alexander Pope, _Essay On Criticism_

Prologue, 1752:

Before the war began, no-one would have said that Bartholomew Lowndes was a man likely to ever see a turn in his fortunes.

After all, years of prosperity had done _nothing_ for 'Babbling' Barty Lowndes; and he was a man who had opportunities a-plenty. He had been a barrister's second son who had a natural bent for art, and despite his parents' fond and exasperated attempts to turn him towards a more profitable trade, "young Barty" had left the stern respectable Protestantism of his family's house in search of his fortune - to follow his Muse, wherever she led him.

His Muse led him a merry dance that would have scandalised his parents. When he had money, he could be found 'in sweet rest' in Holy Ground or drowning his senses in cheap gin-shops. When the money ran out, he would take to his pencil again and frequent the riotous student coffee-houses, where furtive papers were brandished about . Bartholomew would draw amusing satires and obscene caricatures of politicians on the back of law pamphlets, on crumpled sheets of Blackstone's _Commentaries –_ or sometimes on the backs of illicit newspapers. It was an easy-come, easy-go sort of life.

At some point, the desire for something more meaningful than a cursory transaction with an experienced whore must have burdened Master Lowndes' soul, for he married a shy laundress who washed his sheets. She had fancied handsome Mr Lowndes and his fine paints as a shining idol, free with his coin and filled to the brim with talent – and who was to say her nay?

His parents, needless to say, cut him off without a word.

But, against all the odds, Barty and his wife were _happy_. They suited each other, even if Babble lived in a state of happy intoxication, letting his wife drift gently beside him on a wave of cheap meat pies and small ale.

Master Lowndes lived more on his wife's income from washing shirts than she did on the fruits of his labours– but they made do, somehow, and that was enough. Barty made a few odd shillings from grateful landlords in exchange for touching up the faded paint on tavern signs. Sometimes – miracle of miracles! There was an unexpected windfall ; a flat portrait of the landlord's adoring wife and children was requested. Or a sporting print of a favourite dog, or horse.

The couple of pounds this brought in became more and more necessary, as time went by. The little laundress's belly rose and fell with the turn of the years. Necessity made an artist of Bartholomew in a way his 'studies' never had.

Those were the good years. There was little time for the old pleasures. He built up a solid reputation as an affordable, methodical portrait painter who delivered on time. Barty was moved to wear a coat , called himself seriously by his Christian name, and talk of respectability. He even painted a portrait of his own little brood, on three boards nailed together – himself, his wife, and his six children.

Four didn't reach adulthood. Nathaniel, his eldest, died of scarlet fever before he was a year old, and the twins – two small girls, fair as flax – didn't long survive him. Joshua took a chill with his mother one cold winter. They were buried in a small pauper's plot together with the other pitifully small headstones – all of them no larger than a child's horn-book.

It was then that the joy went out of Mr Lowndes. Oh, something like a ghost of amiability remained in its wake – but it was drowned beneath a sea of October ale and the sharp acrid smell of Dutch _jenever_. The old drinking habits began in earnest.

The Lowndes family portrait was nailed to the back of a dull study of Highland cattle and shut up at the bottom of Bartholomew's old trunk. He couldn't bear to part with the painted happiness that once was - but Babble never wanted to look at its mocking aspect again.

When Babbling Barty had finally looked down at his two remaining children (Alexander, eight, and Elizabeth, four) he took up his brush again. He began, albeit sluggishly, to wrestle with fickle fortune once more. But it was with the weakening grip of a man who knows he is beaten; who waits for the finishing blow.

What was left of the decimated Lowndes family – a shambling father, half-smothered in shrunken grey wool, with a small boy and a diminutive girl hanging to each hand– left the city of New York – and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. No-one in the city could have told you what happened to Barty Lowndes and his paints –

Until the war began.

* * *

Setauket, 1776

It was a time of singular unease in Setauket. Sullen, grey autumn had blown in from the sea with its endless rain and countless storms – and for a town that mostly depended on the sea for its living and its trade, the foul weather cast a gloom over almost everyone. The farmers further inland weren't much better off. Too much rain meant their crops rotted in the fields almost as it ripened.

So it was a matter of some surprise that a post-coach carrying a portrait-painter, of all things, should have landed in Setauket, closely followed by a carrier's cart bearing all the obscure paraphernalia of his trade. Whilst some of the Setauket gentry had the odd severe oil-painting or Dutch interior, precious few had the money to spare for picture-painting; or indeed, the inclination to spend hard-won money on anything as frivolous as a _portrait_.

But Mr Lowndes – an affable elderly gentleman with the bright pink cheeks and highly-coloured nose of the affable drunk – proved surprisingly amiable on the subject of fees.

'Anything you can spare, dear sir!' he hiccupped genially, waving an expansive hand towards the startled sergeant standing guard. 'Bartholomew Lowndes, my good sir, is no stranger to customers of limited means! I humbly accept _any_ little – ah, shall we say _testament_ \- to my artistic efforts? I am sure your commanding officers would _appreciate_ -'

'Can't let you do that, sir,' the sergeant said firmly, leaning slightly back to avoid the rich smell of second-hand port oozing from the "artist." God alone knew what Major Hewlett would say to a fat civilian smelling of liquor reeling merrily up into the heart of his military base. 'I can let him know you're here, if you like. But that's it, you hear? No guarantee he'll _want_ anything-'

'Splendid!' Mr Lowndes beamed. Over his shoulder, a small sliver of face in a travelling hood framed by a slice of cap dipped its head. The sergeant was surprised – he hadn't seen the wisp of a girl behind her father's bulk. 'I could hardly ask for anything _more_ than an introduction! By the bye – is there a decent inn where myself and my fragile little daughter could stay? Somewhere …respectable?'

'Somewhere _cheap_ ,' said the girl in the travelling-hood, severely.

'Now, now, m'dear…'

The guard shifted his musket, uncomfortably. It would be sentry change soon, and he wanted to shrug off the responsibility of these awkward strangers as soon as possible.

'There's only one ale-house,' he said shortly. 'Master Strong's place, down towards the docks. There's rooms, if you've a mind to 'em.'

He coughed and stared straight ahead, sharply indicating that the conversation was _over_.

It didn't stop him from listening in as the cart rattled on towards Setauket proper, though. A very different conversation was taking place.

' _Lizzie, my dear -that was_ _ **very**_ _indelicate. A gentleman never refers to any… monetary embarrassments in front of strangers!'_

' _Even when it's **true**?'_

' _Half of our business is smoke and mirrors, my girl! And don't you forget it. Now – how much shall we have to pay_ _ **this**_ _time ?'_

Mr Strong – a dark, glowering man of few words, accepted his guests without question – although he named his price with the confidence of an innkeeper who knows he has the only business in town.

'Hot water's extra. If you want meals too, that's an extra sixpence. Laundry is -'

'Extra?'

The landlord glared at Mr Lowndes' smiling face. 'Anything _wrong_ with my prices?'

'Not at all, my good man, not at all. Only – I wonder… Lizzie, my dear?'

Lizzie, lips pressed thin, wordlessly handed over a pathetically small purse made out of a scrap of cotton, embroidered clumsily with love-knots. It jingled slightly.

'Don't spend _all_ of it, Pa,' she said warningly.

My dear! You dear Papa is the very pink of frugality!' Mr Lowndes said reproachfully – but his eyes were already greedily surveying the glass bottles on the shelf, assessing. Weighing up the amber liquid.

'I wonder, my good sir – a bowl of rum punch? To warm my chilled bones? And if you would join me?'

'Pa? There's the trunks to-'

Lizzie gave up half-way through her sentence. Pa was already firmly drawing his reluctant host aside by one sleeve, explaining the values of whiskey punch as opposed to rum.

She shrugged to herself. It was late. There was little to be done with Pa at this hour – and besides, apart from her father's paints and canvases, there was precious little to cart up to the small poky rooms at the top of the inn. Two packing trunks, her father's old travelling case – and a battered old valise with someone else's initials that her father had picked up in a pawn shop in Boston.

The warm, hop-laden fugs of the Strong Tavern washed over Lizzie's face again as she pushed open the door from the stairs. Inns always seemed to have a peculiar smell; the stale smell of sleepy drunks. Although here it mingled not unpleasantly with a faint under-current of pine from the carefully laid fire in the hearth. For a rural drinking den, it was much better than she had expected. Most of the places she and Father had visited were more… basic. Here there was a panelled snuggery, and a few chipped draughts boards, heavily scored with careless knifepoints –even a few heavily creased broadsheets left scattered about. It looked like Selah Strong could afford basic comfort for his customers in Setauket.

 _Maybe it'll be different, this time._ Lizzie thought. _Maybe we'll stay. Maybe_ -

To her mild surprise , she wasn't the _only_ girl looking for her father near the ale taps. A plump maiden with her hair scraped back into a severe Dutch coif was pulling at a slumped figure in the corner, murmuring ' _Vader, sta op! wees so goed…'_

She exchanged a startled glance with Lizzie as she passed by the table, her eyes wide and frightened at seeing another woman in the tavern. She must be worried about her _reputation_ , Lizzie thought pityingly. Perhaps her father didn't frequent alehouses - or drink - quite as much as Lizzie's own father did.

Lizzie had been wandering in and out of taverns, coffee-houses and gin-shops all her life – almost before she had learned to walk. After all, Father's business was mostly there. And despite everything, she had good memories to go with them. There'd been the happy week spent at the Rose and Crown in the late summer of '58; New Dorp had been a haze of apple-scrumping and chasing games for Lizzie and Alexander that summer. Pa hadn't drunk as much, then. Later, in Boston, Addison's Coffee-House had needed a sign repainting _and_ witty mottoes painting all about its plaster walls, keeping Pa at his brushes - and best yet, Mr Addison had commissioned a portrait for his parlour of himself, double-chinned in an old-fashioned periwig. Alexander had made a mess of the brushwork, but Mr Addison had been pleased. Pa had three guineas for the work – and the promise of more besides…

But things had gone sour in Boston. Not just the war, but with Pa. Alexander and Pa had quarrelled then.

It hadn't been the last fight they'd have.

Their next place, the Three Cripples Inn in New York proper, had been managed by a round, comfortable widow lady who all but adopted Lizzie for the three months Father dawdled over the sign. She would have kept them both longer if Pa hadn't spent his fee so quickly on ale in _other_ alehouses – or been quite so drunk…

Lizzie still dreamt she was back at the Three Cripples sometimes. Those were sad dreams; they left her feeling lost and guilty. The Widow West had lost a daughter to smallpox a year before, and she would have certainly kept Lizzie– if Lizzie could let Pa go. But there couldn't be any choice between life with Pa or without him. Pa _needed_ her. And she couldn't have left him. That year had been the year Alexander –

Lizzie shook herself, sharply. She wasn't going to think about that. But she would have given kingdoms to not see the Widow West's face fall as she said 'No…'

'Lemon, Mr Strong! That is the secret! Spices, yes, for a decent rum punch – but a quart of lemon juice with your lump sugar, and a man may float like King Bacchus on a wash of delight!'

Pa was holding a sort of tipsy council in the middle of the room before a large pewter punch bowl, expounding on the proper measure like an alchemist giving a lecture.

A couple of off-duty privates goggled in fascination. Soldiers took kindly to anyone with a large bowl of piping alcohol on hand – and certainly, the locals didn't seem averse to the enticing aroma of lemon and warm Jamaica rum floating through the air.

Mr Strong was watching with an air of cynical amusement from behind the counter.

'Knows how to make an introduction, doesn't he?' he said grudgingly. 'I'll wager half the regiment knows about your father and his punch when he's standing the tavern free drams; let alone most of Setauket-'

'I wish he wouldn't.' Lizzie said soberly, watching her father's face shine pinkly in the firelight.

'Ay?' For a minute, something like pity flickered in the innkeeper's dark eye. 'Jenneke's another who wishes _her_ father wouldn't…' nodding to the plump girl coaxing her father by the fire. 'But DeJong's a stubborn man. Your father the same?'

Lizzie set her mouth shut. _It's all smoke and mirrors_ , she thought. Thinking it was one thing; complaining to strangers of her father's weakness was _quite_ another.

'No tale-bearer, eh?' Mr Strong finished nonchalantly polishing the pitted wooden counter. 'I can stand you a morsel of supper with the wife, if you like. We don't often have ladies _here_ …and Annie would welcome the company, I'm sure.'

Did he pity her? For a moment, on a swell of pride, Lizzie opened her mouth to refuse - before her stomach answered for her. She hadn't eaten since the all-too-brief breakfast roll that morning. And Mr Strong was _attempting_ to be kind.

Kindness with innkeepers ran all too thin, where Pa was concerned. It would be better to propitiate him. At least for the future.

'Thank you,' she said. 'I'm grateful for your –

'Amos! Mind the bar – and throw out that lout Thompson, would you? He's had enough!' Selah Strong threw down the dirty grey dishcloth and beckoned Lizzie towards a discreet side-door in a narrow passage, where the raucous noise of the inn was more muted. 'Lucky Annie's come down to town with me this week…'

Mrs Strong proved to be a handsome, well-formed woman, with a quick eye and a wealth of dark hair piled up under her cap. She clearly didn't know what to make of her husband bringing a great over-grown girl into their private parlour at first – but a swift, assessing glance was all she needed, before setting another place at table.

She and her husband were both – kind, in a distant way. You could tell that they were small townfolk, from the way they looked her over, as though a new face and figure were a curiosity in itself.

Although Mrs Strong forgot her reserve, and grew quite interested when Lizzie mentioned her father's profession.

'A portrait painter in _Setauket_? I doubt he'll find much business here,' she said, shaking her head. 'Folk are too busy buying their seeds for spring, worrying about corn prices. You don't get many farmers willing to spend good coin on anything like _pictures_ …'

'There's the magistrate, Annie,' pointed out Mr Strong, between a thoughtful puff at his churchwarden pipe. 'Old Woodhull would probably cough up for something. Not the Tallmadges these days; since their boy ran off with the Continentals… but there's a few.'

'Not enough to live on, Selah!' Mrs Strong retorted. 'And _Magistrate_ Woodhull –' she rolled the title out with a disdainful sniff, 'wouldn't give the time of day to a portrait-painter if he thought it might damage his dignity-'

'That may be so,' Lizzie said dispiritedly. Setauket did not at all seem like a likely place. But she tried to remember her father's arguments. 'But – Pa says if you follow the army, you're practically walking on silver…'

As it turns out, she could not have said a worse thing. Silence fell over the Strong tea-table like a stone.

'That so, is it?' Selah Strong was glowering at an invisible enemy on the hearthrug in front of the fire, his dark eyes suddenly alive with smothered resentment. 'Lucky for us then. _Someone_ gets profit from the lobster-backs breathing down our necks…'

'Selah,' Mrs Strong said warningly. She judiciously moved the port-decanter away from his reach. 'We profit from them too, I suppose,' she said, with a quick glance at Lizzie's face. 'They pay for their drink, and spend their wages here-'

'That's what I meant,' Lizzie said, uncomfortable at the turn the conversation was taking. She had the shrewd feeling that the Strongs were not exactly Loyalists. 'We - I mean – Pa paints the officers. Most of them send miniatures home, things like that. And the high-ups like half-length portraits – sometimes even full ones…'

'As victors over the savage natives, I shouldn't wonder,' Mr Strong muttered.

' _Selah_!' Mrs Strong snapped. 'That's _enough_.' She rose. 'I believe my husband is _tired,_ Miss Lowndes. He says things he doesn't mean. And I'm sure you'll be wanting your bed yourself.'

The conversation was most definitely closed.

 _Small town_ , Lizzie thought. _Loose talk_. There was a certain renewed coldness in Mrs Strong's manner that revealed she thought her husband had said too much.

Lizzy rose slowly to her feet and bobbed a prim, frosty little curtsey in return, somewhat offended. But then , of course, she was a stranger to them. They didn't know _what_ she and Pa were.

Politics rather passed Pa by. He _did_ follow the money, wherever it called from. Anyone who could pay for a likeness or an allegorical scene could have one. But as His Blessed Majesty's troops seemed to have rather more money in their pockets, his transactions of late had been mostly redcoats and rich Loyalists.

Lizzie's only loyalties were to her father. She had nothing else. And propitiating people on behalf of her father was now second-nature to her.

'Mrs Strong?' she said, taking her by the sleeve. 'My father is a man of discretion. As am I.'

The slight fear in Anna Strong's face did not diminish. She hesitated slightly - enough for Lizzie to finish.

'And my father said –' Lizzie lowered her eyes like a good girl, 'that he'd be _delighted_ to paint your husband and your good self –'

Now where had that come from? The lie had slipped out almost before Lizzie had pause to think. It was true, Mr Lowndes had frequently painted his way out of potential debt. But not _recently_.

'Paint? Us?' The scowl on Selah Strong's face momentarily slipped, to be replaced with an incredulous look. 'What'd your father want to paint us for?'

'We haven't the money-'Mrs Strong began

'Not for money. Not even for the room,' Lizzie said, quickly. 'As a token of… good faith.' And God, where were the lies coming from, Pa wouldn't be painting _anything_ until he was sober…

But, against all the odds, it worked.

Mr Strong glanced at his wife. 'Annie? Would you… like that?'

'Me?' Unconsciously, Mrs Strong reached up to touch an errant lock of hair that had escaped from her cap. Husband and wife stared across the room uncertainly at each other.

'Yes. Yes, I think I would like it,' Mrs Strong said finally, looking taken aback. 'I should like it very much. And it would look well at the big house, Selah – to have a picture there of you…'

'And you!' Mr Strong said eagerly, pushing back his chair. 'I should like to have a picture of you, Annie – looking down on me from the mantelpiece, say. It's a pretty thought…'

The unexpected signs of marital tenderness from the innkeeper discomfited her almost more than the thinly veiled suspicion from moments before. From the slightly stunned expression on Mrs Strong's face, it had surprised _her_ almost as much, too.

Lizzie coughed slightly and looked away in mounting embarrassment.

'I'm sure Pa will oblige – as soon as he can,' she said, carefully inching her way towards the door. 'I'll say goodnight, sir,' she said, hastily whisking her skirts around the edge of the door before anyone had a chance to stop her.

Lizzie cursed in the privacy of her own head, all the way up the rickety stairs, as raucous laughter echoed from the tavern snuggery. Why had she said that? She'd sworn, _not_ again. Not, not again…

But Pa wouldn't stagger up to bed until the brandy punch ran out.

She had time. And she still had the Strongs' faces fresh in her mind from supper. The more portable canvases were kept close to hand, along with sheets of sketch-paper and Pa's worn leather roll of charcoals and brushes. He kept a sharp knife there to sharpen his charcoals.

It might be worth it, if it gained them a little good grace in Setauket.

With a steady hand, she began to trace a long, dark curve on a leaf of foolscap, losing herself in a world of careful lines and sharp pencil-strokes.

 _Smoke_ _and mirrors,_ Lizzie thought, as she opened the battered travelling valise. _It's all smoke and mirrors._


	2. The Mad Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie and her father encounter miltary men, both good and bad...

 

_As women yet, who apprehend_  
_Some sudden cause of causeless fear,_  
_Although that seeming cause take end,_  
_And they behold no danger near,_  
_A shaking through their limbs they find,_  
_Like leaves saluted by the wind:_

Edmund Waller _, 'On the Discovery of a Lady's Painting'_

* * *

Morning brought with the dawn a pale and irritable Pa, with a querulous tremor in his voice and a slight tremor in his hands. He had slept on a wooden settle downstairs after bidding his fellow-drinkers a merry goodnight, and was full of aches and pains.

It wasn't, perhaps, the best time to broach the subject of a commission to her father; but Lizzie was elated with her success. She had drawn sheet after sheet of fair likenesses. _There_ was Mr Strong's strong brow, and _here_ Mrs Strong's dark eyes – why, she had done _half_ the work for him. All Pa would have needed to do was get out his oils, and Setauket would have been all agog.

But Pa ,alas, was _not_ interested _._

'Rubbish!' he sniffed, twitching aside a charcoal sketch with shaking fingers as he reeled over to his bed. 'What absolute poppycock, propitiating a dirty little grubbing fellow like that! Why, his brandy wasn't worth the money-'

'Keep your voice down!' Lizzie hissed. 'Don't you see, Pa? This is – this is _strategy_. People will hear about it, they'll see you're a man who –'

'-Makes sad little daubs of pasty-faced provincials?'

'Who _honours_ his agreements!' Lizzie snapped, trying not to lose her temper. It was rather hard for Pa to be so fussy. She had already decided she liked the Strongs.

'Oh, don't be such a pettish miss, Bess!' Mr Lowndes said wearily, wincing as he raised one hand to his forehead. 'You don't understand these things, dear. I suppose I can't blame you, but – really, I'm aiming a little higher than _innkeepers_ and their stodgy little wives. I am aiming for _gentility-_ '

'Were the sergeants you were making free with last night so _very_ genteel?'

Infuriatingly, Pa did not take offence at that particular shot. He instead laughed fondly, as though Liz was a child stamping her foot.

'My, what a little scold it is this morning!' he said drowsily, as he dived beneath the covers. 'But see, m'dear, _I_ was the one really playing the strategy game last night. There was a very affable gentleman, Captain Joyce, who _assured_ me of an introduction to the good major. A _most_ agreeable fellow…'

Lizzie said nothing. If Pa's 'strategies' were half as good as he boasted they were, he would certainly have been Royal Court Painter by now – if not redecorating the Sistine Chapel whilst being pelted with roses.

'Unfortunately the poor fellow was rather hard up for silver, so I lent him a trifle,' Pa attempted to wink conspiratorially at her. 'Silver softens up Johnny Redcoat like nothing else, I find! He was _most_ gratified.'

'I'm sure he was,' Lizzie said woodenly.

'Don't look at me like that, child; you don't understand the way the game's played! Commissions require cunning, my dear – cunning and guile. Little bargaining games are no good with _gentlemen._ And as I don't care to deal with anyone _less_ than gentlemanly…'

'Pa-'

'No. You'll have to make my excuses to your precious Strongs, my dear. I'm not sure I care to know them _socially_. Now – if you'll excuse me – I feel a trifle …ugh, unwell…'

And with a toss of the blanket, Mr Lowndes huddled beneath the bed-clothes and was lost to the world.

Silently, Lizzie counted to ten inside her head. It didn't make things any better – but it did give her time to pick up Pa's abandoned portfolio and the scorned sketches before leaving.

'Gently, my dear! Oh, my head…'

She was annoyed enough to slam the door on her way out.

It wasn't _right._ Lizzie was a great believer in things being _right;_ years of trailing after her father had made Elizabeth Lowndes an ardent believer in conviction. Probably because Pa had very few. But…it _wasn't_ right that Pa turned his nose up at people – and good, honest people too. There were a great deal more merchant and trading folk in Setauket than the elusive major, or bloody Captain Joyce – who had clearly sponged off her father with a wink at how he was fiddling the old soak out of his silver… It made Lizzie's blood _boil_ to think of it.

And Pa – knowing her father as well as she did – would simply lord it over his hosts after his flat, discourteous refusal, wearing away any vestige of goodwill, blessedly oblivious to the resentment he would cause as he drank and condescended his way about the place until they were thrown out on their ears. And even then, he would wonder loudly why the 'damned fellow was being so unpardonably rude.'

It may have been necessity that made Lizzie have a sharp eye for a prospective commission, but it was also a genuine desire to give something back. The Strongs had offered her kindness and some little trust. Having Pa snub them wasn't what they deserved.

There was a battered, silvered glass speckled with rust that hung in the narrow passageway. Lizzie glanced in it for a second, tucking a stray wisp of errant hair back behind one ear. She would need her wits about her for this. It would take a cool head to fool Mrs Strong.

This was going to be like that time in Kingston again…

* * *

There had been few redcoats in the tavern when Pa and Lizzie had arrived before – or at least, only a few sullen privates off duty amongst the town's heavier drinkers. Mornings in the Strong Tavern were _quite_ a different matter.

Lizzie could smell the heavy scent of soldier's tobacco from the stairs as she descended. And not just that. There was a confused murmur of rowdy male voices from the snuggery. Evidently the army regulars were occupying the bar counter as matter of course.

'Your ales, gentlemen! Now now, no crowding – Selah! Get Amos to fetch another cask, would you? They've nearly drunk us dry…'

'What about the cold bacon, Miss?'

'Have Cicero slice it, will you?' Selah Strong's voice called. 'They'll not be thinking about food whilst they're calling for their ale. That'll be afterwards…'

To Lizzie's eternal regret, it was at that moment that she unthinkingly pushed open the door – and remembered that this was not York City – nor even Boston, where you had all manner of men and women jostling amicably along-side each other in the bake-houses and cook-shops as well as the taverns. But she had been thinking wistfully of the cold bacon.

Twenty pairs of eyes turned one and all to fix on the whisk of petticoat standing squarely in the middle of the inn parlour. A dozen powdered military heads turned in her direction.

It was as though she had wandered into a barracks and pulled up a chair.

Someone gave a low, appreciative wolf-whistle.

Lizzie's first instinct was to bolt –but Pa's line of work had prepared her for moments like this. _Smoke and mirrors_ , she thought quickly. _Smoke and mirrors_. After her initial pause, she steeled herself to walk forward.

One of Mr Lowndes' patrons in Boston had owned a collection of classical paintings – and one of them depicted 'The Fate of Actaeon'. Most of it had been all agonised posture and leaping hounds, but the goddess Diana in the painting had a cool, 'touch-me-not' smile as she looked on. The smile was belied by the pitiless expression in her eyes.

_I am Diana,_ Lizzie thought, hardening her stare and trying to adopt the painting's cold smile.

'Why, Mrs Strong!' A florid, fat man with a captain's epaulette on one shoulder got up and made a tipsy bow, his wig slightly askew. 'Is this a lovely sister you've been hiding away?'

'This is a _gentlewoman_ , Captain Joyce,' After a horrified pause, Anna Strong bustled forward in a flurry of indignation, 'And a paying _guest.'_

Lizzie looked again. So this was the good captain who had 'borrowed a trifle' from her father, was it? He _looked_ the sort.

'Only we military men see so little of womankind –to lovely woman, bless 'em!' Captain Joyce raised his glass, to a ragged cheer. 'I meant no disrespect, ma-am – or to you, miss. I presume it _is_ miss?'

'And what business is it -'Mrs Strong began.

'Why - _yes,_ sir,' Lizzie interjected, whilst repressing a quiet smile. She had met men of Captain Joyce's stamp before. Haughty 'Diana' was no longer called for. This needed a... different approach. 'It _is_ Miss. And I was very grateful to hear how you have befriended my father!'

'Y-your father? ' Captain Joyce blinked. 'Eh? Who-'

'Told me how honest and disinterested your friendship was,' Lizzie said, opening her eyes like a trusting child, before dropping them shyly again. 'We have very little money, sir, and few connections – and how we fare in Setauket may make or break us. But my father told me that you volunteered an introduction to your commanding officer – with a view to a commission, too! It is _so_ good to meet a _truly_ good man …' To Captain Joyce's evident discomfort, Lizzie took his hand. ' _Please_ – if there's anything I can do to requite your kindness, sir –'

'Bah!' returned the Captain gruffly, turning turkey-red under the sly grins of his men. 'N-not at all, not at all – the very least I could do…'

His glance was now taking in Miss Lowndes' thrice-patched short jacket with the crewelwork embroidery fraying sadly. And the faded skirt. And Lizzie's wide-eyed, innocent stare. He squirmed, uncomfortably.

'Eh…my duties- if you'll excuse me, madam…'

'Of course, sir!' Lizzie dropped his hand, inwardly triumphing. You might have thought Captain Joyce the blushing maid who had stumbled unawares into a taproom. See how you like _that_ , sir. She bobbed a meek little curtsey in the direction of the rapidly retreating Captain's back –

And encountered an electric-blue stare from the wooden settle in the corner of the room that made her stomach clench.

Amongst polite society, there is a certain level of eye-contact which is acceptable. To look too intently at one person is, between strangers, both unnerving and insulting – and humanity in general appears to understand this.

The man looking Elizabeth over from behind his small glass of Nantz clearly did _not_.

He did not drop his gaze when Lizzie looked up; or when she tried to outmatch his stare, trying to shame him into looking away. She might as well have attempted to outstare a statue dressed in regimentals.

But statues, at least, have blind sightless eyes. There was something a little _less_ than sane in that wide-eyed popping blue stare – like the untutored gaze of a very young child…

Or an animal, Lizzie thought with a shudder. More like an animal. Her small victory over pompous Captain suddenly rang very hollow.

'You'll be wanting breakfast, Miss Lowndes?'

Thank God, Mr Strong had emerged, a scowling knight-errant with a cask tucked under one arm. Grateful for an opportunity of graceful retreat, Lizzie allowed Mrs Strong's gentle hand on her sleeve to steer her out of the room.

To her surprise, there was a broad smile on Mrs Strong's handsome features as she turned from shutting the parlour door 'That _was_ well-played,' she said, admiringly. Suddenly, all half-reserve was completely gone from the innkeeper's wife . She gave Lizzie a grin as though they had been bosom friends from childhood.

'I-It was?' It didn't feel like a success to her.

'I've never seen Captain Joyce dosed with his own medicine before,' Mrs Strong said, suppressing a laugh in her throat, 'Why, it does a heart good to see something like that! He turned tail faster than you could count thruppence!'

'Oh… yes,' Lizzie managed a smile at the memory of pink-faced Captain Joyce scuttling away to his ale. She'd almost forgotten about him under the uncomfortable scrutiny of the officer.

'Mrs Strong, I-'

'Call me Anna,' Mrs Strong suggested. There was a warm, approving twinkle in her eye that said: _you earned it_. 'I tend to avoid the taproom of a morning. Although you seemed to manage very well –'

'I forgot I wasn't in a city inn.' Lizzie confessed. 'It's not thought ill of there.'

'They're well enough, the regiment,' Mrs Strong said confidentially, as she began to set a place at table. 'And they've caused no trouble here with Setauket women. Major Hewlett is _very_ strong on morality; something to be grateful for, I suppose. But I wouldn't answer for breakfasting with the men as a lone woman and a stranger. Get your father by you.'

Lizzie couldn't bear talking of Pa _now._ 'Are the officers _all_ like Captain Joyce?' she asked, tentatively, hoping to turn the conversation.

Mrs Strong snorted. 'There wouldn't be a much of a war if they were! There's better, I grant you – although Corporal Easton's a weasel. Never pays his tab. And the lieutenants are terrible gamblers. They'd steal the shirts off each other's backs if there's no one else to play whist or piquet. But, apart from the dram-drinking and the saucy pamphlets, there's no harm in most of them.'

'Most?' Lizzie thought back to the officer again. 'What about the one by the fire? On the bench?'

'Who do you mean?'

'The pale one?'

' _Him_?' The merriment drained out of Anna Strong's face. 'That'll be Lieutenant Simcoe.' For a moment she was once again the grave, guarded innkeeper's wife. 'There's the odd one… _enjoys_ making trouble. _Likes_ it. He's often in here, with the others.'

'Does he start fights?'

'He _finishes_ them.' Mrs Strong said tightly. 'I don't ever want to see a thing like that again. Your father will do well to steer clear of Simcoe. He's a mad dog.' Her fists had unwittingly bunched in the fabric of her skirt, Lizzie noticed. 'and if he _was_ a dog, I'd have had him shot–'

She broke off abruptly as Selah Strong, looking perplexed, came in from the noise and bustle of the inn.

'Do you ladies know what this is about?' he demanded. 'Only I've just had Captain Joyce give me money "for the poor artist fellow…" '

Anna Strong stared at Lizzie for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

'Now if that isn't a miracle? Getting money out of a redcoat – _and_ Captain Joyce, no less!'

'He owes you money?' Selah said dubiously.

'He _borrowed_ money from my father.' Lizzie said stoutly. ' But I think he was feeling… charitable.'

It wasn't all of it, once they had counted it up. Pa's 'trifle' had been three shillings, and there was now one shilling, an assortment of pennies and an old tinny farthing left. And a horn button.

But Lizzie's appeal to Captain Joyce's conscience had apparently worked. And whilst Selah Strong was not a very demonstrative man when it came to merriment, there was a faint upturn to his mouth once he heard the whole story from his wife.

It was then that Lizzie knew Setauket would be a good place, in spite of Pa and his social snobbery.

She and the Strongs were on different terms now– and somehow, they had become unspoken allies in the face of adversity. It felt _right_ ; something Lizzie had not felt since they had left the Three Cripples.

When Pa eventually rose from his slumbers, he found his daughter frowning abstractedly at a small easel she had propped on the linen press, paintbrush in hand.

'What on earth are you doing, child- are those _my_ oils?'

'They're the old set,' Lizzie said firmly. 'And _I'm_ painting the Strongs, Pa. _You_ don't have to. But they've been very kind-

Mr Lowndes sat up, blanket still tangled around his stockinged-feet.

'Dear me, if you _insist_ …' he said, in a bewildered fashion. He squinted critically at the canvas.

Elizabeth had sketched out a crude facsimile of wooden panelling as background – the better to make the subjects stand out larger than life.

Selah Strong was stood half turned towards the viewer, half turned towards the seated figure of his wife. One hand was on her shoulder. Liz had sketched out that rare expression of tenderness whilst it was still fresh in her mind, and it looked very well painted in. She had also painted in the careful, crisp starched frills of Mrs Strong's cap that shadowed her face. She was not quite yet content with the expression there; somehow Anna Strong looked out cautiously from the portrait with dark, unreadable eyes. She looked as though she was the point of leaping up from her chair.

'That arm is a bit out of proportion, dear, isn't it?'

'I haven't painted in the flesh-tones yet, Pa.'

'I'd add a _little_ more sheen to the folds there in the skirts when you have time, Liz. But – on the whole, quite passable.' Pa sounded surprised. 'Well now. It _wasn't_ a waste of time teaching you after all…'

He grabbed at his waistcoat. 'Is there any chance of breakfast?'

'It's past noon, Pa,' Liz said patiently, frowning at the painted arm. Perhaps it was a _little_ out of proportion. But to move it would disturb the line of the table, and ruin the whole composition…

She sighed, and put down her brush.

'Lunch then, dear?' Pa twinkled at her. 'Come; I shall treat my little prentice to the best Setauket has to offer. We shall have oysters, and porter, and completely disgrace ourselves eating them on the street...'

Lizzie smiled. That was Pa, all over. He could be petty, unreasonable, and infuriating when money was tight, but then he'd _smile_. And Lizzie saw her old Papa again through the drunken stranger; the one who'd let her play with chalks as a very little girl, and who made her and Alexander giggle with his funny stories. For a few hours, it was like having a _real_ father again.

'Why Papa!' Lizzie bobbed a mock-rustic little curtsey and began plucking at her apron-strings, 'Why not? I need a walk. Let's see Setauket!'

* * *

Setauket itself as a town was a huddle of small wooden houses perched defensively on the very edge of the sea. There was something of a harbour; a few jetties where the fisher-folk tied up their boats – and if you squinted through the grey sea-mist you could just make out the dim outline of a huge British supply-ship docked far out at sea. Seen so dimly through the autumn fog, it looked like a ghost-ship looming ominously over the small town.

Lizzie's fingers itched for her sketchbook, left back at the tavern. You couldn't compose scenes like that; sometimes Nature just _gave_ them to you.

_I'll come back tomorrow_ , she vowed, reluctantly turning away from the view of the bay.

The oysters were very good, with a squeeze of vinegar and a pinch of salt – although Lizzie did have to drag her father away from the scowling stall keeper once he began to expound on the recipe for beef, stout and oyster pie. Pa's culinary interests weren't for everyone – although he did delight in sharing.

'Shall we see the church, m'dear?' Mr Lowndes suggested. 'I am sure that now we have made ourselves known to the military gentlemen, there should be no difficulty in obtaining admittance. After all, I did that pretty little piece of diplomacy with Captain Joyce-'

Lizzie said nothing. She had the remains of the 'diplomacy' tucked securely in a small linen pocket sewn into her stays. She glanced dubiously at the bristling breastworks and sharp stakes planted around the white-painted wooden meeting-house.

'Perhaps,' she suggested tentatively, 'Perhaps, Pa – we should wait for the _captain_ to act for us? A formal introduction would be…' she cast around desperately, for something Pa would listen to. 'It would be more _proper_. And becoming in – in a gentleman, to wait for an introduction to be made…'

'You think so?' Pa sagged, a little disappointed. 'Well. You know best, my dear. I'm sure.' He shivered, glancing up at the grey sky. 'It looks like rain, anyway. I think perhaps some a little warm brandy would do me good…'

Lizzie sighed. The old, good-natured Papa was already gone.

She turned back, wrapping her grey kersey cloak more closely around her as the first few drops of cold rain began to fall.

'Oh, I say – my dear!' Pa gestured with his walking stick towards the distant white spire of Setauket's church. 'Look! I believe we have a diplomatic sortie approaching!'

Sure enough, down the beaten path there marched what looked like a child's notion of a review. A handful of toy soldiers: two men, front and back, and between them, a small figure in a cocked hat with an air of assured dignity.

'I believe, dear,' Pa said, full of glee, 'that the gentleman is Major Hewlett himself!'

'Really?' Lizzie said incredulously. 'He's rather _small_.'

'No rules for officers, dear.' Mr Lowndes looked down with vague affection on his daughter. At five foot five, Lizzie was a comical sight remarking on _height._ She was a little doll of a thing in a hand-me-down cap and her threadbare short jacket. 'Of course, I may possibly… equivocate a little when it comes to painting him. Flattery never does any harm...'

'What if he doesn't _want_ a painting, Pa?'

'Nonsense,' Pa murmured, _sotto voce_. 'Now _quiet_ , Bess. My good sir!' he said, raising his voice in a mellow accent of genial goodwill as the little military party approached. He doffed his hat in an extravagant bow, with a sideways glance at Lizzie – who hastily ducked into a meek little bob herself.

'Are you the portrait-painting gentleman, sirrah?'

Major Hewlett was not, despite his immaculate dress and exquisitely pomaded hair, a particularly imposing man. He was, on close inspection, a little homely under the powdered wig and gold braid – which perhaps explained something of his pompous manner. Reaching up to the full stature of His Majesty's grandeur, Lizzie thought.

'I am indeed, sir,' Mr Lowndes replied heartily. 'Do I have the pleasure of addressing Major Hewlett?

' _Business_ , rather than pleasure, sir.' the major replied, shaking his head. 'I am led to believe that you entered Setauket without presenting your papers?'

Pa took a step back. 'I beg your pardon?'

Lizzie looked up in horror. They _had_ presented papers; to a bored-looking sentry. Why would they have cause to-

And then her gaze snagged on the officer _behind_ Hewlett.

It was the gaunt-looking lieutenant from the tavern. Who, now he was unfolded from a chair, appeared to be a head taller than everyone else. He towered above the little major, directing an evident sneer in the direction of a very flustered Pa.

'I- I can assure you, gentlemen,' Mr Lowndes stammered, 'There was a man posted on the road who we gave all the proper documentation – on my word of honour –'

'I regret to say the soldier claims _otherwise_ , Major.'

Lizzie found herself inwardly surprised by the accents of the formidable Lieutenant Simcoe. For such a tall man, he had a surprisingly high, almost delicate voice. Why, it was the voice of a Latin schoolmaster, mincing over declensions and pronouns! Fastidious to a fault, almost a caricature of a correct gentleman. In other circumstances, Lizzie might have laughed.

But as it was, her blood was up. Pa did not need ridicule and bullying. And if she could help it, there would be none.

The major, she decided at once, would be the easier target. Raising her eyes, and assuming the gentle, slightly appealing glance she had thrown at Captain Joyce, Lizzie took a few timid steps forward, like the good little daughter she was.

'Is there some difficulty, gentlemen?' she asked, uncertainly. 'This must be some mistake; My father _has_ our papers if you need to see them. We had them countersigned…'

'Y-yes, indeed-' Pa stuttered, throwing her a grateful glance. 'In my coat-'

Lizzie almost wished she hadn't spoken; for it meant they all turned their eyes on her. And after their encounter in the inn parlour, Lizzie knew there was precious little chance of shaming the Lieutenant into looking away.

The major, however, made her a neat little bow, as brisk as a robin redbreast hopping on a twig.

'I am sure it is a misunderstanding, madam. However, in such troubled times as these – we cannot be too careful. I am sure you understand our need for caution...'

'Of course!' Mr Lowndes said eagerly, in a sweat of anxiety. 'And if I may be permitted to step upstairs to my room…'

'I think the _lady_ should make the retrieval, Major,' interjected the Lieutenant sharply. ' _If_ you please.'

'Well, I hardly think we need be _quite_ so strict here, Lieutenant…' began the little major, darting a look of disapproval over one epauletted shoulder.

'But you said so yourself, Major. In times such as these, there is _every_ need for caution.'

Was that a note of mockery in Lieutenant Simcoe's voice? His face was perfectly solemn as he threw the major's own words back to him, turning that electric-blue stare squarely in his superior's face.

Hewlett's indecision showed in his eyes. To protest on Mr Lowndes' part would show weakness – and on his own ground, no less! To acquiesce was insufferably discourteous; but it was the only way forward.

'If you _wouldn't_ mind, miss?' he said stiffly, casting a look of evident dislike upon his lieutenant. 'As Simcoe is so _very_ zealous -'

 

Lizzie didn't need asking twice. She turned and hurried away with a dignified little patter of feet – only breaking into an undignified run once she was past the threshold.

God, this was the _last_ thing they needed. Pa had never quite caused a scandal – although he had frequently spent the night cooling his heels with other roisterers if he found drinking companions. Lizzie always kept a supply of money sewn up into her bodice for emergencies like that. But military men…and Pa…

_Enjoys_ making trouble, Mrs Strong had said. _Likes_ it…

Fortunately, Pa's papers (crumpled letters of introduction, commendations, and a bill for breakfast and a glass of port) were not very numerous. Lizzie easily found their permits– and, to her infinite relief, with the right countersignature allowing them to cross into Setauket.

Just _try_ making trouble now, Lizzie thought grimly, as she hurtled down the creaking stairs.

Fortunately, Pa had recovered his composure enough to attempt a little light artistic conversation with Major Hewlett; although Lizzie saw his glance creep furtively sideways from time to time. He had clearly been counting the seconds in agony until she returned.

'Here!' she announced brightly. 'I _knew_ we had them!'

She proffered the papers, gently, with a small dip of her skirts towards the major.

' _Well_ , Lieutenant?' Major Hewlett snapped. ' _Are_ they in order?'

A black-gloved hand pulled the sheaf of thick paper from her hands. Lizzie quickly snatched her fingers away – she did not care to prolong _any_ meeting with Mrs Strong's 'mad dog'.

The 'mad dog', on the other hand, seemed to take a calm enjoyment in nettling the little major. He turned - maddeningly -through every page, peering at the writing with a theatrical air of enquiry.

'Why, so they are.' he said, with an air of mock-surprise. 'Who would have credited it? How very… _sloppy_ of Private Perkins, not to have remembered that. I shall really have to reprove him.'

'Your enthusiasm is to be commended, Lieutenant, but there's really no need,' Hewlett said stiffly – before turning with an apologetic air towards the stupefied Mr Lowndes. 'My most sincere apologies, sir – and – as I was saying – I do believe I would appreciate a little… ahem –'

He coughed, delicately. Was that _embarrassment,_ Lizzie wondered? 'Er - Perhaps your young lady had better go inside, sir? The weather is inclement.'

_Ah._ _Nudes_ , thought Lizzie resignedly, adjusting her cloak. It was probably nudes that the little major wanted . Pa did a furtive trade, under the rose as it were, of classical daubs nominally called 'Hylas and the Nymphs', say, or the 'Judgement of Paris'(and occasionally, for certain aesthetically inclined gentleman, certain heroic friendships in which women were mysteriously absent). It was culture, Pa said – or at least an excuse to look at groups of pretty women with no clothes on in the guise of classical literature. They paid very well, so Lizzie hardly minded. Oh well. Thank _goodness_ for that…

But as she turned to step inside, an iron scarlet-clad arm stopped her path.

Lizzie stared upwards, alarmed. She had to; the 'mad dog' was head and shoulders above her, and holding out the damned papers, with an offensive little gentleman's smirk towards a lady and an inferior. He probably thought that was _winning,_ Lizzie thought with disgust.

It took some effort, but Lizzie managed to extend a hand and take the crackling bits of official paper from him.

'Thank you,' she said, her voice shaking. Why did it sound like she was _afraid?_

_I'm not afraid, I'm_ _**not** _ _…_

For a moment, his arm still barred her path; but then – thank God! - it dropped. Mercifully, he stepped back and made a very slight bow in her direction.

'Miss _Lowndes_ , isn't it?'

He took the trouble to pronounce her name slowly - as if he hadn't just deliberately read her name, age, birthplace and profession all written down in neat clerk's hand!

It was about all Lizzie could stand. Making a short nod, she fled as quickly as bare civility would let her into the inn like a rabbit to its bolthole.

Mrs Strong was waiting inside the door of the private parlour. One look at Lizzie's angry, mutinous eyes and flushed face was enough.

'Yes,' she said simply. 'That how he always makes _me_ feel, too.' The fellow-feeling in her voice was enough. 'Drink? I find _I_ need something to take the foul taste away...'

'If he tries anything with Pa –' Lizzie said, in a voice choked with rage. 'I'll-'

'Hush now!' Mrs Strong put a hand on her arm. 'Leave that. It does no good to think _that_ way.' She sighed. 'That'll probably do, anyway. It's a power game with the army. They like to mark their territory, like dogs. They'll more than likely leave you alone, now-'

'I think Papa's discussing a commission with Major Hewlett,' Lizzie said, slowly unclenching her fists. 'So… there was some good. I suppose.' She shook her head, calming down. 'I just felt so _angry…'_

When Mrs Strong looked up, her angular, beautiful face was full of bitterness.

'Aren't we _all_.' She said briefly. 'Some families _here_ think-'

But whatever Setauket families thought had to wait. In a gust of wind and rain Pa blew in, a little colour returning to his pale cheeks in the warmth of the inn.

'Pa!' Lizzie shot to her feet. 'Are you alright?' she dropped her voice. 'Did the major request anything… classical?'

'Classics be damned,' Mr Lowndes grumbled, shaking his wet cloak onto the newly scrubbed floor. 'Damned odd – the fellow was so secretive about it I couldn't make out _what_ he was asking, at first. Probably that long whey-face streak of piss, putting him off…' He broke off, looking a little affronted.

'Your high-ranking major only wants me to paint a picture of his damn _horse_!'

Lizzie couldn't help it. After all the tension, just a moment before – and the sight of Pa's baffled, pompous face - she burst into an outrageous fit of whooping laughter. It wasn't ladylike at all, or restrained; but it brought a smile to Pa's face, even whilst he reached for a glass of brandy over the counter.

'I don't see what there is to laugh about, you mocking little ninny,' he grumbled. 'Horses are a plaguy difficult thing to paint unless you specialise. But there'll be ten guineas down for it, if I don't addle the foreshortening...'

Mrs Strong nearly dropped the flask of brandy in her shock.

'For a _painting_?'

'And I have two as a little deposit!' Pa dropped the gold on the counter, making the metal sing. 'I think this calls for a toast, don't you – to the gold of his Blessed Majesty George the Third, Lord love him! And long may he continue to make enough gold pieces for us all!'


	3. If Wishes Were Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie's loyalties are questioned...

_Let Observation with extensive View,  
Survey Mankind, from __China_ _to_ _Peru_ _;_  
_Remark each anxious Toil, each eager Strife,_  
_And watch the busy Scenes of crowded Life;_  
_Then say how Hope and Fear, Desire and Hate,_  
_O'er spread with Snares the clouded Maze of Fate._

Dr Johnson, _The Vanity of Human Wishes_

King George's guineas produced a great effect on the Lowndes family. It put Mr Lowndes in such a good mood that it entirely erased the unpleasant memory of his almost-arrest – and had Setauket had such things, Pa would have spent his precious two guineas in a haze of munificence on port-wine and cocked hats and all manner of fripperies.

' _No! No_ port wine,' Lizzie said sharply. Her small face suddenly showed much more strain under the turn of good fortune than Mrs Strong would have believed possible. On the contrary, her face suddenly looked braced and set, as though facing some unpleasant task. 'Pa – when does he _want_ the portrait?'

'Eh? Well, I didn't enter into specifics, my dear –' Mr Lowndes said vaguely. 'I _had_ thought it might be a nice Michaelmas gift…'

' _Michaelmas_?' Lizzie pushed back her chair, appalled. 'That's a _month_! You never promised the major a full-length portrait on horseback for Michaelmas, did you? Please tell me you didn't, Pa!'

There was a ragged note of pleading in her voice.

'I don't believe I promised, in so many words…' Mr Lowndes said vaguely. 'Although I may have _hinted_ that –'

' _Hinted_!' Lizzie stared flatly at her father. 'Pa – if I were a man, I would box your _ears_.'

Mr Lowndes looked flabbergasted. His eyes popped slightly with indignation. 'Bess! That is most uncalled for-'

'Is it? Is it _really_ , Pa? When's the last time you painted something like this?!' The small painter's daughter was quivering with rage. Her curls were almost standing out from her face, Anna noticed. Like an enraged porcupine. 'There hasn't been a commission like this since Mr Addison, at least! And you talk about a _month_! And horses! _Horses_! –'

A sullen silence fell between father and daughter. Mr Lowndes had turned out his bottom lip, looking like a sulky, balding baby huddled in his corner by the fire. Lizzie had turned her face down to glower at the hearth, her jaw set sharp.

'So…' Anna said briskly, affecting not to notice the chill in the atmosphere. 'You'll be staying a month, then, at least?'

'At _least,'_ Lizzie snarled, folding her arms. 'God in _heaven_ , Pa…'

'Well then,' Mrs Strong said firmly, 'That would be, hmm - ten shillings with meals.' She held out her hand. 'In _advance_ , please, Mr Bartholomew. As I know you'll be quite… _busy_ ,'

Wordlessly, Pa handed over the sagging cambric purse, his face black with displeasure.

'I suppose some brandy-punch is out of the question?'

Anna Strong looked at him over the bar. She was smaller than Mr Lowndes, but she stared him down, black eyes stern.

' _No_ , sir. I think… _not_.'

'I _must_ say,' Bartholomew Lowndes swelled like an enraged toad, outrage overcoming his sense of dignity. 'that _this_ – this is all a vicious women's cabal of vapourings and – and _sentiment_! A pretty state of affairs, when a man of respectabilitation can't even have a drink to celebrate a most –most fortunate -day. Bess – I am _most_ disappointed in you.'

And with that father's curse delivered over the banisters, a growling Pa retreated to his room, to gnaw over his wrongs with a private bottle of sherry.

'I'm sorry,' Lizzie said mechanically, as soon as her father was gone.

'Really?' Mrs Strong raised an eyebrow. 'No need. That's hardly the worst insult I've heard in a tavern.' She snorted. 'Vicious women's cabal, indeed!'

'He doesn't know what he's _asking_ ,' Lizzie said, almost to herself, as Mrs Strong took a companiable seat beside her. 'A month! That's no _time_ …'

'What if you called it two?'

'Two?' Lizzie calculated. Say Pa stayed off the bottle – say his hand was firm and his eye true… 'If the under painting went well… maybe.' It _could_ be done. 'But the major will never wait-'

'If he fancies your father as an artist, he will.' Anna said, pouring out a measure of small ale with a generous hand. She pushed the mug over to Lizzie, who drank it down gratefully. 'Besides, there isn't much in Setauket to occupy a man besides the liquor; unless he takes a shine to fishing,'

She handed Lizzie the sagging purse back. 'Keep your purse-strings tight, Miss Lizzie – or is it Bess? I've heard your father call you both.'

'Pa only calls me Bess when he's cross with me,' Lizzie said soberly. 'Thank you. For helping –'

'Not at all.' Anna Strong said gently. She felt a strong twinge of sympathy for the girl in her hand-me-down cap and frayed jacket. She'd been like that once herself. She recognised that baffled frustration. 'And you can call me Anna, Lizzie. I think, between us, we can manage your father.'

Despite the obstinate silence when she knocked on Pa's door to wish him goodnight, Lizzie went to her bed that night in a curious, hopeful mood. There was something here to _build_ on in Setauket. Who knew? Perhaps with Mrs Strong's help, she could wean her father from the bottle. Perhaps he'd begin painting in earnest again, with a proper commission on hand. Perhaps…

Counting her tentative hopes as though they were obedient sheep, Lizzie ruffled up her hair and curled into her lumpy blankets. Setauket was going to be _different_. She could feel it.

* * *

An artist's eye must necessarily be sharp; in order to capture the essence of a moment. Perhaps those who sketch from life simply train their observation to be sharper and a little keener than the average man, but within three days of lodging at the Strong Tavern, there were already some things that hadn't gone unnoticed by Lizzie – who took cautious soundings of Setauket society.

Major Hewlett, their new-found patron, was a 'bloody martinet' according to gossip from the regiment, and in person a neat, fussy little man rather particular about his cuffs and starches. Lizzie's first impression of him as a robin redbreast never entirely went away. Perhaps it was the eyes; Hewlett always had one sharp, bright little dark eye on _something_ – whether it was raising the breastworks around his encampment on the church's hill, or having a full drill parade every Sunday. He was very neat, extremely punctilious, and universally polite – but Lizzie somehow had the impression he was playing "soldiers" like an earnest schoolboy crouched on the hearthrug with painted wooden soldiers at his command. The Continental army was probably not going to complain if they found a private without his stock, or with specks of dust on his cocked hat.

But on the other hand, there was something rather touching about a man who was so earnest over small things.

His horse, for example.

Bucephalus was a grave, placid grey who towered above his small master , stabled rather incongruously in a makeshift stall made out of broken-up old pews and meeting-house benches. He whinnied pleasantly over Hewlett's shoulder as the major wrote his dispatches, nibbled affectionately at his master's epaulettes when feeling neglected, and all in all was probably the most cosseted horse in the Province.

Pa didn't know where to look at the first sitting.

'This is the beast?' he said dubiously, sketchbook in hand. Pa was not fond of horses, whether painting them or approaching them, although he did his best to assume some interest. 'A fine specimen, to be sure, Major…'

'Beast?!' Major Hewlett looked indignant. He laid a protective hand on Bucephalus' pink muzzle. 'Bucephalus is no mere beast, sir! A horse, Mr Lowndes, is a man's constant companion through the vicissitudes of war where both depend on the other for survival…'

Bucephalus snorted.

'There, good boy,' Hewlett said abstractedly, proffering a piece of apple. 'I was thinking, Mr Lowndes, perhaps a _caracole_? Bucephalus rearing , with me seated?

'An equestrian portrait?' Pa blenched beneath the brim of his hat. 'In the er, grand heroic mode, Major?'

Lizzie, who had been dutifully following behind her father with his sketchbook, paints and a basket of lunchtime provisions in tow, tried to imagine tiny little Major Hewlett astride a rearing Bucephalus and failed. It would be _traditional_ , certainly.

But…

Lizzie thought back to the soft green slope outside, with the sea stretching outwards in a long blue line, the woods tracing the shoreline like a dark velvet ribbon. And she thought of the usual flat backdrops for equestrian portraits. Dull backgrounds.

'What about…outside?' she ventured. 'On the hill?'

'The hill?' the Major broke off to stare at her.

'Overlooking the bay? And – if I may, sir,' Lizzie gently gathered up a slice of apple and offered it, palm flat, to the horse . 'I think that Bucephalus deserves better than a _usual_ portrait. My father has an idea…'

The idea had been Lizzie's devising, early in the hours of the morning. The portrait would be three-quarters rather than a full canvas – a much better size for an officer to take about with his luggage. There would be a hint of blue Atlantic in the background, a gentle curve of the sea – and to the fore, Bucephalus, unsaddled and glossy. The Major would stand to one side in his glorious regimentals, one hand on his bridle ; the perfect picture of man and his constant companion in quiet communion.

The little Major's face brightened as he heard the description of his budding painting.

'What a novel idea, Mr Lowndes!' he said, taking Pa confidentially by the arm. 'And how appropriate, to include Setauket itself – a true _colonial_ painting, through and through…'

Doubtless the major meant to be kind; although 'colonial 'sounded faintly condescending to Lizzie's ear. But Major Hewlett was already waxing enthusiastic.

'I don't suppose we could have the company colours of the regiment draping the scene? Upon my word, I think it would look very well against the green…'

'I'm sure, major…' Pa said dazedly, being tugged away by one arm towards the furled company colours. He darted a parting glare at Lizzie as though to say, what _have_ you got me into?

'Smacks a little of idolatry, doesn't it?' a soft voice said behind her.

Lizzie froze.

Pale Lieutenant Simcoe had somehow insinuated himself softly into the meeting house. Lizzie hadn't even heard the tread of footsteps on the floor; he might as well have slithered in from a crack in the floorboards. But his tone was almost conversational – and thankfully, his eyes were resting on Bucephalus with more than a hint of distaste.

'Idolatry?'

'That horse of Hewlett's,' Simcoe remarked, with an idle flick of his fingers towards the stables. 'He has three, did you know? But only Bucephalus is the favoured one. Man's a fool.' There was a note of veiled contempt in his voice. 'Call the beast Incitatus and have done.'

That's a little hard, surely!' Lizzie protested. Major Edmund Hewlett might be many things, but he certainly was no Caligula.

Still. When not forced to look directly at the waxen lieutenant, conversation seemed almost possible. 'Do you not like horses yourself, Lieutenant?'

But alas, asking that small question drew Simcoe's attention. That wide-eyed, strangely blank stare turned down towards Lizzie.

'Horseflesh is horseflesh,' he said briefly.

Lizzie lowered her eyes again. _Serves you right for trying to talk_ , she scolded herself. The conversation had juddered to a halt – and with that parting remark on horseflesh, Lizzie wasn't at all sure she wanted to renew the conversation.

But, bizarrely, Simcoe didn't seem to feel he'd killed any attempt at conviviality. He carried on as though making the mildest small-talk imaginable.

'I suppose you see a good deal, in your father's line of work?'

'Of what, sir?' Lizzie was floundering.

'Horses?' And then, as Lizzie was trying to find a polite reply, he added, very softly, '…and flesh, of course.'

This was **intolerable**.

Lizzie started up, cheeks scarlet with fury.

'You are _offensive_ , sir!' she said, in a fierce whisper, darting a glance towards the Major and her father – still deep in involved discussion over the regiment colours. 'And I might _remind_ you, if any sense of – of common _decency_ does not-' she spat the words out like musket balls, ' That Major Hewlett is a man of the strictest morals, and one _word_ to him or my father …'

To her considerable surprise, Simcoe looked genuinely surprised at her rage . Seeing it, Lizzie almost lost sight of her anger. She was used to the boorish sallies of inn-parlour wits, but such genuine, open bafflement took the wind out of her sails; it was like a child perplexed that fire burns. That colourless face of his clearly said, plain as day, _how on earth have I offended?_

But then that customary smoothness of manner took over, and Lizzie's dislike returned all at once.

'I meant no impertinence –'

' _Didn't_ you?' Lizzie said grimly, frantically trying to catch her father's eye. Damn it, Pa had his back turned – and Major Hewlett was now waxing enthusiastic on the _Iliad_ 's description of the horses of Achilles. She was caught. No chance of help. 'Would you address such language, sir, to a sister?'

'I have none,' Simcoe remarked calmly. 'So I hardly know. But if I _did_ offend –'

'-Which you _did_ -'

'… then I _heartily_ crave your pardon.'

In the face of that cool glacial politeness, Lizzie felt rather like a spoilt child stamping her foot – flushed and undignified. Worse yet, the lieutenant proffered one elegant black-gloved hand; possibly the most passive-aggressive tactic in the art of apology.

Lizzie thought fast. To run shrieking to Pa would cause a scene and mean the end of their new-found peace. To accept made her seem timid; worse, as though the insinuation were nothing.

'I don't know what other artists may do,' she said stiffly, 'But my father is no libertine, sir, and _I_ am no York City drab . I am a _gentlewoman_.'

'I am pleased to hear it,' Lieutenant Simcoe said tranquilly. 'As Major Hewlett is a man of the _strictest_ morals…'

The major and Pa had taken their turn about the room, and were now eagerly swapping morsels of verse.

'- Yes, indeed, descended from Poseidon's own! Quite right, Mr Lowndes. You are a man who knows his Homer?'

'Myself, and my daughter, sir,' Pa said, with an elaborate bow. 'My Elizabeth has such slight education as I can afford, but she takes to it with ardour, Sir. With ardour. Aren't we all mere acolytes at the feet of the Muse of Art?'

Lizzie winced, slightly. Pa was overdoing it.

'And quite right too, sir!' Lieutenant Simcoe raised his voice, daintily elbowing his way into the conversation . 'Although we can't _all_ sit at the feet of Pallas Athene.'

'Eh?' Pa looked nonplussed, and then nodded, hastily. 'Quite right, quite right…very, er, demanding Muse…'

There was a long, embarrassed silence. There was the trace of a derisive smile on Simcoe's lean countenance. Clearly he had taken the full sum of Pa's 'classical education'.

'That would be the _goddess_ , father,' Lizzie said hastily. 'Would you like your drawing pencils?'

* * *

It was an awkward sitting. Pa sat on a camp stool outside, trembling a little as he put his hand to paper. Major Hewlett assumed a noble 'communing with nature' pose next to Bucephalus – although the effect was slightly spoilt by the wind, which blew his hat over one eye.

Lizzie sat to one side, diligently sketching. Pa was right. Horses _were_ hard. It was the way the muscles bunched under the skin…

Lizzie was so absorbed in her task, she didn't noticed that the colourless Lieutenant Simcoe was still watching both her and her father; and with an observant eye that would have done credit to any artist.

'Lieutenant? _Lieutenant_!'

Lizzie awoke as if from a dream, only half-content with her sketch of Bucephalus, to the Major's abrupt bark.

'I'm sure Captain Joyce will _want_ those dispatches today, Simcoe? They're on my desk.'

Lizzie caught something that was almost a _snarl_ twitching across the lieutenant's face as he turned on his heel. There appeared to be little love lost between the "mad dog" and his master.

'Can't say I particularly _like_ the fellow,' Hewlett said uneasily, casting a half-apologetic glance in his artist's direction. 'As a gentleman, you understand? He's perfectly correct as an officer. But he does rather _sneer_. I can't abide a sneering man, myself.'

Pa ahem-ed, politely. 'Er – I believe your horse is trying to eat your sleeve, Major…'

Seeing Major Hewlett coaxing Bucephalus into position with affectionate little 'tsks'; _that_ was something she wouldn't have missed for the _world_. Lizzie discreetly sketched some of the less than heroic moments down the side of her page, and found herself enjoying them much more than a stiff figure of allegory. Hewlett would clearly have sacrificed half the cambric shirts he owned for Bucephalus.

By that time the sitting was over, and Lizzie's stick of charcoal worn down to a short stump.

'I think that went well, don't you?' she said merrily, as they trooped down the steep incline of the hill. 'The Major's a pleasant gentleman.'

Pa looked oddly dispirited. He looked glumly down at his leather portfolio. 'Hmm? Oh, yes. Quite agreeable, indeed…Yes.'

'Pa?' Lizzie looked at him. Pa had never sounded so weary after a sitting with a client before… 'What's wrong?'

'Eh? Oh –nothing.' Pa looked away, avoiding her concern. 'I just didn't feel the creative juices _flowing_ this time, that's all… can't say I'm really that, eh, satisfied.'

'Did you not like the way your sketches turned out? That's what sittings are _for,_ Pa _._ ' Lizzie said encouragingly. _'_ No-one gets it right the first time. You say so yourself!'

'I do, don't I,' Pa said abstractedly. 'You know, I think I may be in need of a little liquid refreshment after my labours, Lizzie?'

' _No_.' Lizzie said flatly.

'Not even one glass? To steel me for my great task?'

'You know you don't stop at _one_ ,' Lizzie said darkly.

' Please, Lizzie…' Pa was almost wheedling, like a child begging for sweets. 'How about an ale, then? Penny ale, to wet my whistle?'

Fortunately Lizzie had a few loose coppers in her cloak pocket. She wouldn't have trusted Pa with the purse after his brandy punch spree. He pulled a gargoyle-face at the fact she had just handed him a penny.

'I don't suppose a little more –'

' _No_ , Pa.' Lizzie said sternly, picking up the pace in case he decided to protest. ' _Not_ this time. We're going to _work_ in Setauket.'

* * *

And work they did.

For the first week, Setauket society danced around the newcomers with hesitant step. Artists were surely not entirely _respectable,_ and wanderers are always looked on with suspicion in small, out of the way places. Had Pa been less of a showman with his faded gentleman's manners and graces, the rest of town society would have quickly tired of 'that painter fellow'. But Pa's munificence (and the tale of the brandy punch) was an instant charm, and his countless anecdotes of famous and titled people he had painted or sketched was like an expert thief wielding a lock pick; he simply _insinuated_ his way in. The farming gentlemen liked the saucy tales of his misspent youth in New York.

But it must be said that apart from the Strongs, the families with a more liberal bent declined to make acquaintance with 'the reprobate picture-painter'. Old Mrs Tallmadge, stiff and stately in her Sunday brocades, did not even deign to see Mr Lowndes' courteous bow in the street.

That didn't do Mr Lowndes any harm with the Loyalist families; in fact, it rather worked in his favour. By reason of his patronage by Major Hewlett, Pa gleaned an invitation to the Major's quarters – a house some few miles distant from Setauket proper. Whitehall was apparently the local magistrate's seat, and suited the gravity of command much better than town lodgings.

'Trust old Dick Woodhull to feather _his_ nest,' Selah Strong said with disgust. 'Keeping in with the Major makes life pretty comfortable for _him_ , doesn't it? Sitting there with his fancy French furniture in his _gentleman'_ s library–'

Gossip was a frequent feature of the Strong's sittings for their portrait; and in the pale painted wainscoted dining room of Strong Manor, Lizzie had to admit, she was very much at home. The Strongs had taken up Miss Lowndes whole-heartedly, and Lizzie was profoundly grateful for it.

But she saw Anna Strong flinch, slightly, at her husband's mention of the name 'Woodhull'. It was only a moment – but she dropped her eyes, and bent her head slightly, as if her best lace-trimmed cap was suddenly too heavy for her head.

'How is it your father isn't _here_ doing the painting, any way?' Mr Strong said suspiciously, tugging at his neck-cloth with an uncomfortable air. 'Seems like _you're_ doing most of the work…'

'Broadly true,' Lizzie agreed cheerfully. She had long since prepared a ready answer for this; and she was now almost word-perfect. 'He's the master-painter. I merely paint the background.' She picked up a fine horsehair brush. Now if she spread white paint, very thinly, just over that line of the skirt, that would give just the right lustre to Mrs Strong's charcoal silk... 'Pa always calls me the acolyte. _He_ 's the high priest. Once my daubings are done, Pa will give it the master touches, and – phew!' Lizzie blew out her cheeks. 'That's _his_ talent.'

'Oh.' Mr Strong appeared satisfied. He looked down fondly at his wife in her Sunday best, one hand gently squeezing her shoulder. 'That's something, isn't it?'

Mr Strong reached up – after a second's hesitation – to take his hand. But it was a conscious effort, Lizzie saw. The wary look Lizzie hadn't managed to entirely erase from the painting told the tale more truly.

Mrs Strong was _fond_ of her husband, true enough. She liked him; respected him, feared for him – and even took a gentle proprietorial way of seeing to his comforts that brought waves of tenderness to Selah Strong's eyes. But love? No. _That's too much_ , Mrs Strong's eyes said. _Don't ask for something I can't give._

The real tragedy seemed to be that Selah was hopelessly and passionately in love with his wife – although he overshadowed her with his ideas of 'what was done'. Far more than Anna really liked, Lizzie suspected. Anna Strong was intelligent, sharp, and decisive. She hardly needed shepherding by a careful husband.

Husbands were generally out of love with their wives in books; it was peculiar indeed to find a wife out of love with a husband neither old nor brutal (it must be added that Lizzie had no more idea of marriage than a fish, but she had her opinions). But perhaps he was not her first husband.

Besides – Mrs Strong _already_ knew Lizzie's secret.

'Your father's not been _near_ that portrait, has he?' she said bluntly; once Selah had taken leave to look after his fields.

'I-'

Lizzie looked up, panic-stricken.

'I'm not stupid, Miss Elizabeth.' Mrs Strong walked squarely up to the painting, looking at the wet oils still gleaming on the painted surface. 'You think I don't _know_? I own that tavern. My servants clean up the dirty rags you clean your brushes with. They also clean up after your father in the parlour. And they know who is _where_ , and when.'

There wasn't a trace of accusation or censure in her voice. 'How long have you been helpin _g_ him paint?'

Lizzie gave up all thoughts of excuses or lies. That wouldn't work with Mrs Strong.

'Just… this one,' she said, reluctantly.

'This picture? Of me and Selah? That's _all_ you?' Anna took a step back, eying the other Mrs Strong in the picture. It was a good likeness. Better than some of the flat old things at Master DeJong's, with blank-eyed family children with podgy necks. 'It's remarkably fine for a first painting.'

Lizzie looked down at her shoes.

'Pa does well,' she said stoutly. 'No man better. He's a _good_ painter. He just needs…help, sometimes.'

'And you don't mind giving it?'

'He's my father,' Lizzie said quietly – and the way she said it made Mrs Strong momentarily touch her arm, kindly. 'We get by.'

She hesitated. 'Does Mr Strong know – that I-?'

'Selah?' Mrs Strong stood up, smoothing her skirts. 'Bless you, Selah's a _man._ Of _cours_ e he doesn't know.' She smiled, a wry light shining in her dark eyes. 'I've told enough lies myself to know. We women do what we can to survive and we - _humour_ men's fancies.' She broke off, looking a little pensive. 'They have peculiar fancies about women's dignity, don't they? Men? Selah fancies I should keep myself to being a lady up here at the house, rather than involve myself with the tavern...'

'Do you want to?' Lizzie asked, tentatively.

Anna Strong looked around at her fine parlour; the sunlight streaming through the windows, the trees lining the approach to the house – and shook her head, vehemently.

'Sit up here like a fine lady, doing embroidery and pretending there's _nothing_ out there? Not I.'

What must it be like, always on the move, with no friends? Anna wondered, looking at the pale, anxious face of the painter's daughter. Granted, friends were fewer in Loyalist Setauket these days – but there had been friends once.

_And sweethearts..._

Anna winced, inwardly, shying away from that painful thought.

'Well,' she said. 'As long as you don't _mind_ being an - acolyte, was it? But…' she found herself suddenly curious. 'Did you never … _want_ to leave your father?'

'Leave _Pa_?' Lizzie sounded faintly incredulous. ' _Why_?'

'There's a lot of world out there, Miss Lizzie,' Anna said, still looking thoughtfully at the painting. 'Friends, neighbours, family. Not all of it has to be cleaning up after your father, you know. Times are changing…'

'Not for us,' Lizzie said tightly. She suddenly felt horribly guilty ; as though she'd been disloyal to Pa, somehow. She threw her brushes down with a quick decisive little movement.

'I'm glad you're pleased with the painting,' she said, firmly closing the subject. 'But I think I really _must_ be going…'

Mrs Strong suddenly looked repentant. After all, it wasn't her place to question the girl's loyalties. _But I'd have run away with a sweetheart before I'd reached eighteen, living with an old trout like that,_ she thought privately. What did the girl _really_ want? Surely not to keep following her father, as he reeled from one gin-shop to the next…

* * *

Why do people _always_ ask that, Lizzie thought crossly to herself, as she walked down the road from Strong Manor, cloak fluttering in the wind. She was angry with herself; angry for letting Mrs Strong see that Pa needed… help, and doubly angry that she _did_ want something more than down-at-heel lodgings and last-minute miracles.

Back during a flush of good fortune staying in Brighton, Alexander had caught a head-cold, and been confined to bed for two weeks. Pa had bought himself a battered second-hand bundle of quarto volumes of poetry. There had been some Dryden, a mix of essays by Pope and Johnson, a large moth-eaten schoolboy copy of the Odyssey, and - treasure of treasures! – the poetical works of Edmund Waller. Pa had discarded it as sentimental rubbish, preferring to mark the _Odyssey's_ few engravings for future subjects.

Lizzie had taken up the poetry for reading to Alexander. Alex had then lent her some sonnets a defaulting lodger had left behind – and the rest was a foregone conclusion.

There was nothing particularly sacred about devotion to Art, Lizzie knew full well from experience. But occasionally, when they'd left a lodging house in a hurry - Pa with dirty stockings tied about his neck so he didn't lose them -it was nice to think that somewhere there was a courtly place where handsome gentlemen wrote 'Odes to Sweet Chloris' or 'On Belinda's Eyes'. Alexander had told her gentlemen's colleges were supposed to be like that, amongst all the Latin and Greek.

Sometimes, Lizzie could see a sweet little scene in her mind's eye; Pa, commissioned to make a portrait of a handsome young gentleman with sweet dark eyes and a melancholic disposition - who would become instantly smitten with his 'sweetest Elizabeth' and write acres of poetry in her honour. After one or two touching sentimental scenes (Lizzie had read Fanny Burney's _Evelina_ several times) where she protested her devotion in the painted setting of a rose-garden, the young gentleman earnestly besought Pa's blessing with tears in his eyes and 'much rejoicing'.

The gentleman himself was a mixture of a stage Hamlet she had once seen on the boards of a theatre and a rather good-looking pot-boy at the Three Cripples, and no foundation in reality. The sober truth was that Lizzie's romantic experience had extended to the odd catcall in taverns, and a wink from the good-looking pot-boy – which had shattered her ideals. Heroic gentlemen certainly didn't _wink._

Lizzie didn't have many illusions. But the poetic gentleman was one of them, and something that kept her happy moving about New England. Maybe not _now_. But next time – next town, next place - there could be a heroic gentleman macaroni with dark eyes .

Hope springs eternal, and it is no different for the daughters of painters than for the heroines of novels. All it really needed, Lizzie thought, was the _right_ set of circumstances…

It was almost tragically ironic that this was, in fact, true. Just not in a way Elizabeth would have chosen for herself…


	4. The Oppress'd Oppressing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the observer is observed, and Setauket politics begin to alarm Lizzie...

_Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,_  
_Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe:_  
_And he who wants each other blessing_  
_In thee must ever find a foe._

Oliver Goldsmith, _Memory_

 

The gallant equestrian commission proved a bundle of mixed blessing for the Lowndes family. On one hand, Mr Lowndes, faced with the stern alliance of both his daughter and his landlady, had subsided into sullen compliance about his dram-drinking. Ten guineas is not a figure to be sneezed at, and a man needs both a steady hand and a clear eye for portrait-painting; especially a portrait of this magnitude. Without the distractions of rum punch, Pa rolled up his sleeves and took sketch after sketch of the noble Bucephalus as though his life depended on it.

But his temper soured noticeably; which was _most_ unlike Pa. Granted, the last large painting he had done of this size had been of Mr Addison, more than a year and a half ago; but there had been plenty of work in between, even if it was only mottoes and grapevines for inn-signs. But Lizzie doubted that her father had ever fretted quite so much over a client as he worried at the noble Bucephalus.

 When he came to painting, the paints were badly mixed. When sketching, Pa’s pencils were too blunt, or too finely sharpened to do the creature justice – to say nothing of bad paper and poor canvas.

Mr Lowndes’ temper was fraying badly.

‘God damn it, man! Hold the horse’s head _higher_! _Higher!’_ he barked at the groomsman holding the horse’s bridle. ‘I’m not painting a dray-horse with his head in the muck! How do you expect me to paint the damn animal like this?!’

He threw down his brush in frustration. His fingers were shaking again, Lizzie noticed.

‘Pa-?’

‘Don’t _fuss_ , Bess. _Leave_ it!’ her father snapped. ‘Always pick-pick-picking at dear old Papa, aren’t you? Can’t you leave well enough alone, for once?’

He broke off , looking away at the hurt expression in his daughter’s eyes. ‘Aha – I’m sorry, my dear. I’m not…myself. Take a walk, why don’t you? Sketch the harbour, or something. Only I need to conquer _this_ …’ he glared at the inoffensive Bucephalus, quietly munching on the hay in his loosebox ‘This abominable piece of…’

 Lizzie didn’t need to be told twice. When Pa was one of his sulks, he pecked savagely at everyone around him like a broody hen, clucking over his art. But he had never been in quite such a foul temper before. He would be better working it out by himself.

 Besides, Lizzie brightened at the prospect of the harbour. She _had_ promised herself an attempt at sketching the ship. And the thick woodland around Setauket head could possibly be a classical arbour, if she really exerted herself before the light faded…

 

Strangers were still a novelty in Setauket; Elizabeth still noticed the occasional furtive glance from passers-by. But really, Lizzie didn’t think herself particularly noticeable. To be sure, she was comely, in the way that all young girls in good health are, but her eyes were perhaps a little sharp; made into bright round little dark buttons by too much study. And she was rather too hasty with her hands and feet to be called ladylike. The best Lizzie had ever been able to say of her own reflection, was that with a little care and a pretty gown, she could be a pert lady’s maid in a comedy of manners.

 Lizzie found herself sadly disappointed by the harbour. It was an afternoon as grey and dull as ditchwater. The mysterious sea-mist had long since departed, and apart from a slovenly fellow shucking open oysters with a big knife, the waterfront was deserted. Even the supply ship had moved off further out to sea, an indiscernible black blotch on a heaving grey sea.

Still. With the cool sea-breeze in her face and the rustle of sea-grass, it was a thousand times better than staying with Pa in one of his moods.

Lizzie opened her own battered journal, taking the liberty of an upturned bucket as her seat, and began to draw.

She drew the shoreline, at first , tethered to the little jetty that served Setauket’s fishermen. The shadows changed over the water, so there was little chance of capturing the billows, but she caught the feathery edges of the sea grass, the sharp lines of the planks…Pa’s rejected pencil worked very well for her once she began in earnest.

Slowly, Lizzie’s face softened as she grey more absorbed in her work. The lines of habitual worry that drew her eyebrows together vanished altogether when she drew – for there was the edge of the chandler’s house to draw, that far-off line of roof that Anna had told her was the DeJong farm…

She didn’t notice how the hours passed. Or the tramp-tramp of the change of guard behind her. Time and space became very distant things altogether one Lizzie had her attention buried in her rough copies.

But after an hour and a half of undisturbed peace, Lizzie felt a cold prickle, right between her shoulder-blades. It was nothing at first – just the vague sensation that someone was looking at her. Hardly anything much.

But it grew. It was an insistent, invasive feeling. Someone was watching her, just beyond her line of vision. ..

Lizzie forced herself to stare at the horizon, drawing her cloak about her like a protective shield. The sea blended with the sky, just at the furthest point. If she used the blunt side of her charcoal to _just_ outline that cloud _there_ …

 _I’m not going to give in and look around_ , she thought to herself. _I’m not. Whoever it is will get bored and go away_. _People are always curious, especially in small towns. It’s probably just a local who’s never seen an artist before-_

But it was no good. It was like an _itch_ now, that crawling feeling at the back of her neck…

Lizzie paused to wipe a charcoal smudge from the inside of her wrist, peering around the confines of her cap, before determinedly staring at a seagull poking hopefully around Robeson’s oyster stall.

She concentrated on the seagull. Perhaps just a touch of charcoal, for the colour at the edge of its wing?

There was a polite schoolmaster’s ‘ahem’ from behind her.

Lizzie finally, reluctantly, turned her head. There was no mistaking that delicately-pitched voice.

Or, now she came to think of it, the disagreeable intrusion.

* * *

 

 Back in the prosperous days of York City, Lizzie had seen an automaton from France displayed at a fair. It was all wax, wispy horsehair, and lifeless glass eyes, but it moved, in a halting, ticking way; _almost_ like a human being. Had you stripped the steel skeleton of its waxen shell and dressed it in flesh and regimentals, you might possibly have had Lieutenant Simcoe.

 It gave Lizzie something of a jolt to realize he had been quite so close. Simcoe was an unknown, faintly alarming element. Their bizarre encounter at the encampment had both alarmed and irritated her. Lizzie didn’t like _guessing_ at people; she liked to make sense of what she saw – and there seemed no rhyme or reason for his appearing _now_.

‘Still hard at your labours, Miss Lowndes? They must be Herculean, indeed.’ There was something like a smile in the pale thin-boned face hovering over her shoulder. ‘You are a diligent apprentice to your trade…’

Lizzie indignantly shut up her sketchbook.

‘I find the sea-breeze rather _cold_ ,’ she said frostily, preparing to rise from her seat with as much dignity as possible. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think I shall withdraw – ‘

Something akin to chagrin flickered visibly across the lieutenant’s face.

‘But I _do_ mind,’ he said. ‘I mind it very much. I would rather you stayed _exactly_ where you are, Miss Lowndes. _Do_ sit down?’

It wasn’t a question. It was a command. But Lizzie bridled at his tone; and there were no patrons to conciliate here. Her eyes flashed.

‘Given the nature of your… talk last time, _sir,_ I do **not** want your company or your conversation.’ she said sharply, picking up her skirts

A muscle twitched convulsively in the lieutenant’s cheek. For a moment, Lizzie thought the gentlemanly mask might drop; but no. Whatever internal clockwork propelled the man forward resumed its course.

‘I own my blunder, and I understand how unforgivable it must seem…’ His voice took on the carefully rehearsed note of a schoolboy declaiming a piece of Latin. ‘Surely a gentlewoman will pardon a man long estranged from polite society?’

He finished by looking down expectantly at Lizzie.

Did he want a round of applause? Lizzie wondered irritably. But on the other hand - for Pa’s sake, it would be better to make peace.

She hesitated a moment.

‘I believe I _can_ forgive you,’ she said, somewhat stiffly, reluctantly resuming her seat. ‘Since you took the trouble to make a more gentlemanly apology...’

She very nearly took back her words at the sight of his self-satisfied smile. But Simcoe had already discarded his penitence; as something he had no further use for. He was already glancing inquisitively over her shoulder at her sketchbook.

‘May I?’

‘I-‘

The clumsily bound portfolio was pulled from Lizzie’s hands before she could so much as utter a protest. Simcoe deftly teased open a page, examining it closely.

‘This is the harbour here?’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie said shortly. ‘I was sketching it.’

‘You work hard.’ There was the scratch as Simcoe flicked over the sheet absently with one finger. ‘And studies, I see! This is the tavern. And _this…’_ He paused.

‘It’s the encampment around the church. From when the major was sitting for his portrait.’

‘And you found the time to make … _strikingly_ accurate sketches of military defences, I see?’

‘What?’ Lizzie blanched at the implication. ‘No! I mean – the Major wanted something of the camp in the background, with the regiment colours, and I thought I could –

‘Isn’t that your father’s job?’ Simcoe said lightly. He peered closer. ‘Oh, look – there’s the oyster-major himself! He _is_ rather short next to the horse, isn’t he? Still. Hewlett’s not a tactical man.’

And with a sharp movement, he calmly tore the page clean away from its binding.

Lizzie looked aghast. Sketchbooks weren’t for _tearing_ ; paper was expensive, hoarded up with care. She could have simply altered the encampment drawing!

‘Just a precaution, of course.’ Simcoe vaguely seemed to notice her stunned expression. ‘Oh. Would you like the part with the major back? And the horse, of course. Can’t forget Incitatus…’

With painstaking care (that nonetheless made Lizzie grit her teeth), he tore the drawing sharply in half again.

Simcoe returned the mutilated sketch to her, another pale smile stretching the corners of his mouth. On the flimsy page, a small Major Hewlett patted three-quarters of a horse, the back legs abruptly sheared off at the edge of the paper. It looked _absurd_ , like a bar-room caricature.

 

‘I should draw more seascapes, if I were you,’ he said. ‘But _very_ well done, indeed. You even noted the gun placements! _And_ the palisades.’ He looked admiringly down at the half-sheet of drawing in his hand. ‘Yes, very well done.’

Lizzie couldn’t trust herself to speak . Gathering her things about her through a red mist of rage, she turned with as much hauteur as she could muster towards the tavern.

‘Miss Lowndes? One moment.’ The unnatural smile was still stretched taut across Lieutenant Simcoe’s face. ‘I shall escort you back.’

 Even all the hauteur of Diana herself couldn’t save Lizzie’s sense of dignity here, being solemnly escorted hardly more than twenty paces to the inn door. It was like an absurd form of arrest. And the lieutenant made her a flourishing bow upon parting that made her clench her fists beneath her silk apron. Couldn’t the man just _go_?

 She didn’t take the trouble to look behind her as she bolted into safety, which was perhaps just as well for her peace of mind. Had she glanced from her window into the street below, she would have seen the lean figure of the obtrusive lieutenant; still examining the torn scrap of drawing in one hand with evident approval.

* * *

 

 

Fortunately, the tavern was all but deserted when Lizzie made her hasty entrance. It was early afternoon. Lizzie had space to unloose her hat, and breathe easily; something she had scarcely done since the polite ‘ahem’. She leant against the door as though barricading herself in, calming herself, before hurrying to her room.

 

 _Most_ of the regiment were amiable fellows who simply wanted a quiet place to drink their pay away, with a few humorous ballads and a comic song or two. Making room for a painter and his daughter made no odds to them, and conciliating people on Pa’s behalf was half of Lizzie’s life. It wasn’t usually a hard task. It was something Lizzie was a practiced hand at, and she had learned which ones to avoid.

Sergeant Easton was a plump little weasel with nasty, calculating eyes beneath his curled brown wig. Before one evening was out, he had tricked Pa out of nearly four shillings in a rigged game of lansquenet. Lizzie persuaded him away eventually – although not without a round of mocking sniggers that had brought the colour to Lizzie’s cheeks and murder into her eyes.

Captain Joyce was not so bad, but he _never_ had money. Lizzie had been right about his freely sponging drinks from all and sundry; sometimes from his own officers. After three days casual acquaintance with the comings and goings of the army, Lizzie came to the conclusion that Captain Joyce actually did very little. He left most of his duties to his lieutenants and then genially took the credit - in _addition_ to borrowing money from them. Lieutenant Appleton was known to glower viciously in Joyce’s direction when the Captain was making particularly free.

Lizzie _understood_ Captain Joyce, and Easton, and Lieutenant Appleton. She had a gentle understanding of them all, from the brisk little Major right down to gentle Ensign Baker, who had a particular fondness for spending his scanty pay on cold ham and penny ale.

 But she did _not_ understand the grim enigma that was Lieutenant Simcoe.

 He wasn’t a _carouser_ , that much was certain. Living in the inn had given her glimpses of the unofficial officer’s mess in the snuggery. She would have been more at ease if he had been a drinker like Joyce and Easton; Lizzie _knew_ carousers. Oh, he sat with his fellow officers drinking whatever brandy was put in front of him, _yes_ ; but he didn’t drink like other men. Despite Anna’s grim description of him as a ‘mad dog’, he was almost stonily in control with his liquor.

But there was _something -_ some undefinable air of menace _-_ that unnerved every man he came into contact with. _No-one_ nudged elbows or stood treat with Simcoe. No-one called on him for a song, or to read aloud from any of the Loyalist broadsheets. Whether it was his sneering mien, or that air of barely restrained threat, you couldn’t tell – but there was a sharply defined space around him whilst he sat in haughty state by the hearth. And everyone breathed more easily once he was gone.

Easton offered a sort of jackal’s homage to Simcoe, Lizzie had noticed. He was deferential; ingratiating, even, although with the wary eyes of a schoolboy who acknowledges the master with the switch. Whereas he was downright insolent with Appleton, who everyone frankly acknowledged as something of a buffoon.

Mrs Strong was right. The man was _dangerous_.

 

* * *

 

 

But after this initial encounter, curious to say, Elizabeth quite forgot about him. She was concentrating on making things safe for Pa.

It took Lizzie a while to master the currents of Setauket society. Small towns move with the ebb and flow of public opinion so suddenly, that you can lose your footing before you know where you are. There were far more things to concern her than one vaguely unpleasant officer.

 

For instance, the suspect liberal families – who had hitherto quite looked down their noses at that ‘little Lowndes fellow’ – suddenly became fairly warm towards Lizzie ; as warm as any condescending country family can be towards a penniless stranger. She strongly suspected Mrs Strong to have had a hand in the matter, but Anna twinklingly denied all knowledge of _that_.

‘ Not I! It must have been Selah,’ she said innocently, after an effusive tallow-merchant’s wife had accosted a startled Lizzie in the street. ‘I’m sure he’s put in a good word for you – _and_ your father. What did Mrs Sampson want from you again?’

‘Portrait of her children,’ Lizzie said dazedly. ‘Wants a half-length from Pa. And her husband wants a painting of the house he’s building…’

‘Well, word gets around in a small town,’ Anna said amiably. ‘You’d be surprised how far it travels. And as your father’s being entertained at Whitehall, he passes muster for most Setauket folks. Not _everyone_ is good enough for Mr Woodhull, magistrate.’

Lizzie looked up. There was that note of bitterness again. She’d heard it before with Mr Strong, at the sitting in the Strong parlour– and now there was a sharp, pained splinter of it in Anna’s voice, too.

 Mr Woodhull didn’t seem to have many friends. Lizzie had only seen the man once, at one of the major’s scheduled sessions; and he looked much like any other country gentleman she’d ever seen; middle-aged, a strong man running to seed, faintly-self-satisfied. He had bustled in on their sitting with the pre-occupied air of a minister of state.

It would have been funny, Lizzie thought uneasily, if it didn’t brew so much ill-will in the town.

‘You don’t like him?’ she asked, curiously.

‘Nothing against the man.’ Anna said tightly. ‘Not much _for_ him, either, mind. He throws his weight about. Pretends he’s some sort of ambassador for the colonies to the major. And he doesn’t mind taking what he can from others, if it suits _him_.’

She turned, looking at Lizzie gingerly from out of the corner of her eye. ‘Some of the families here think Woodhull’s a sycophant. Worse than that – he’ll size up property for the taking if you’re suspected of being a patriot.’

Lizzie swallowed. This was dangerous ground. Anna had never been quite so open about her leanings before.

‘Lucky Pa and I are paupers,’ she said lightly. ‘We haven’t anything worth the taking.’

‘You’re lucky,’ Anna said, broodingly staring out at the horizon towards Oyster Bay. ‘Because those that have…’

Anna was all that was left of the Smith family on Long Island now, and that seemed to be warning enough against strong opinions in politics. The rest of her family were in hiding in the further reaches of Connecticut with some of the Strongs. Selah Strong had three brothers, two of whom were… somewhere. With the Continentals, it was guessed – or some roving band of militia, picking off redcoats wherever they found them. And there was only one, palsy-stricken old man left out of the formidable Brewster clan.

In Loyalist-occupied Setauket, the majority were just ordinary people who didn’t want trouble; people who didn’t want their ricks burnt or their houses torched by _either_ side.

‘A word to the wise, Liz,’ Anna said quietly, as they passed from the safe open road into the close-huddled outskirts of Setauket. ‘ _Keep a close eye on your father_.’

‘What?’ Lizzie stared. ‘But… he’s not had drink for three days now. I took away his _money_ -‘

‘ _Not_ the drink.’ Mrs Strong pulled her to one side, under pretence of adjusting her own cap. ‘ _Listen_. Your father’s made a friend of the army here. That’s good for him, I see that. But that could get him into trouble in a _different_ way. With _other_ people. You understand me?’

Lizzie felt her insides turn cold. It hadn’t occurred to her that out here in the country, things weren’t as clear-cut as in newly retaken New York. She’d thought the only risks were cheap gin and no commissions.

‘Keep him busy,’ Anna said carefully. ‘Get him … _other_ paintings. The Sampsons, the DeJongs – any county family will do. But keep him _balanced_.’

 _That way you keep him safe_ , Mrs Strong’s dark eyes said, as she straightened. ‘I’ll do what I can for you,’ she said, in a deliberately loud, pleasant voice, as they entered the tavern. ‘I’ll put in a word with Mr Dejong. He has a new pretty little wife; I’m sure he can be persuaded to sit for your father…’

And with that, she bustled off in the direction of her parlour.

It was a well-meant, well-staged scene. But Lizzie stared after her, open dismay written across her face.

It was as much as she could do to keep Pa focused on the Major’s commission as it _was_. The tempting lure of ‘genteel conversation’ called to him at _every_ opportunity; and Pa, of course, took every opportunity.

How was she to persuade him to paint the DeJongs into the bargain?

 But Anna’s warning had frightened her.

 Pa might be waylaid by disgruntled Setauket boys, looking for a soft target for their anger with the army. He might be rolled for his thrice-battered silver pocket-watch on his way home from Whitehall, left for dead in a ditch...

He might be actually dea–

  _That_ thought made her stomach clench. Pa was eternal. Other things might change, but a father is forever.

  _Balance. Keep Pa balanced, that was the key_.

Keep him safe. Make friends. Make _allies._ She followed Anna into the parlour, and carefully closed the door behind her.

 ‘I’ll have to do it,’ she said bluntly.

‘What?’ Anna started. ‘I thought he was painting now-’

‘Pa _can’t_. Not with the trouble he’s having with the Major’s painting.’ Lizzie avoided the unspoken question in Anna’s eye. ‘I – could you manage it with the DeJongs? It’ll be _my father_ painting it, but…’

‘The work will be yours? _Again_?’

‘It’s easy,’ Lizzie said quickly. ‘I’m just an apprentice, remember? I make the first few impressions, Pa gives it the master-touch…’

 _And that was a poor excuse the first time, Liz._ Mrs Strong’s face almost said as much.

‘What about the paintings you’ve promised to the Sampsons? Will your father be using his ‘acolyte’ there, too?’

‘No!’ Lizzie said vehemently. ‘It’s not like that! I can get Pa to do the landscape and the half-length. He just needs a little time to get used to it again…’

‘Does it not help now he’s clear of the drink?’ Anna’s voice softened. ‘He seems better than he was when he first arrived…’

Lizzie shook her head. Her cap slipped forward over one eye, showing an unruly tousle of dark curls. It wanted combing, Anna thought. And there was a thin, exhausted look to the girl’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.

‘You need sleep before anything,’ Anna said firmly. ‘And clean linen for tomorrow. The DeJongs are _particular_.’ She ushered a faintly protesting Lizzie towards the stairs. ‘We’ll _see_ about the rest, Miss.’


	5. A Lady's Intrigue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie meets Jenneke DeJong, and the Strongs understand each other better...

_How strangely active are the arts of peace,_  
_Whose restless motions less than war's do cease!_  
_Peace is not freed from labour but from noise;_  
_And war more force, but not more pains employs_

                                                John Dryden, _To the Lord Chancellor Hyde_

 

The DeJong family was a sprawling set of well-to-do Dutch farmers whose fathers had settled in New Amsterdam. They had never strayed far from Long Island since; the ‘Engels’ settlers were flighty fly-by-night settlers by comparison to the DeJongs – and they showed as much.

‘They’re _proud_ ,’ Anna commented before the looking glass next morning. She had overtaken Elizabeth’s toilette, and was sharply teasing her hair into careful symmetry. ‘Or Master Martin is; which amounts to the same thing. The whole family keeps up a front as though they were still fine merchant-men. And they don’t have much to do with us. But they’ll _do_.’

Lizzie winced beneath the sharp smack of the horse-hair brush. ‘They will?’

‘They don’t take kindly to bloody-backs, put it that way. If you get a commission from him, and the Sampsons – you and your pa should do.’ Anna stood back, to admire her handiwork. ‘There, that’s much better. You don’t look so much like a bird’s nest.’

Lizzie’s hands had crept up gingerly to her head. ‘Is my head still _there_?’

‘Sauce,’ Anna said tolerantly. ‘Did your Widow West never show you how to put up your hair-‘

There was a sudden crash of a table overturning below stairs. An irate baritone murmur could be heard dimly through the floorboards.

‘What on earth –‘

Both Lizzie and Anna froze. Mischief in a tavern _never_ ends well.

‘That’s Selah – Anna said, listening harder. ‘Stay here. I’ll see what’s amiss-‘

‘Wait-‘

In a confused flutter of anxiety, both Anna and Lizzie ventured on to the landing. The voices had dropped a little.

‘…and you’ve come _here_!? Now!? Any other corn chandler would have you posted over town as a defaulter, Woodhull, and you _know_ it. If it were any _other_ man…’ Selah had dropped his voice into an angry vehement hiss. ‘Any other _honest_ man…’

‘I paid De Huyler _back_ ,’ said another voice insistently. ‘The _full_ strength of what I owed him…’

‘Ay, with your father’s money! How many times has _he_ bailed you out?’

There was a long, hostile silence from below – but Lizzie hardly noticed that. What she _did_ notice was that Anna Strong’s face had gone deathly-white. She breathlessly held one hand over her stays as though to keep herself contained, dark eyes suddenly over-bright.

‘Abraham?’ she murmured, and took the stairs at a run.

‘Who is it?’ Lizzie whispered anxiously over the banisters. ‘Anna, is it the magistra-‘

But Anna was already gone, in an agitated whisk of skirt.

‘Selah!’ her voice sounded falsely bright. ‘You never said we had a visitor, this early…’

‘We don’t,’ Selah said abruptly. ‘Mr Woodhull was just leaving.’

Lizzie slunk cat-like down the stairs. Anna had left the door open behind her in her haste - and even from here she could see Mr Strong’s darkening scowl.

The visitor himself did not seem particularly eager to leave. He hovered indecisively, hat in hand on the threshold, darting a quick uneasy look between Anna and her husband.

‘Morning, Anna. Eh – Selah’s right. I’m just…’

‘But this is the first time in a sennight you’ve come to town!’ Anna sounded suddenly over-eager in her merriment. ‘Come, you must give us the gossip at least! Is Mary well-prepared for her lying-in? I know Mrs Tallmadge stopped by to see her…’

‘She did, I believe. She’s a sure hand, they say. She’s helped with her grandchildren often enough…’

Still.’ There was the shadow of a smile in Mr Woodhull’s voice. ‘Mary is determined to have a doctor. As it’s the first-‘

‘Of many, I hope?’

Lizzie took the opportunity to sidle crabwise down the stairs into the parlour.

‘I hope.’ Abraham plucked at a loose thread in his cocked hat. ‘and Mary hopes, I think.’

‘Good,’ Selah broke in. ‘Very good. Still. Must make you uneasy, leaving the farm at such a time, Abraham. I won’t keep you.’ He stared down the slighter man, until Abraham looked away. There was an invisible contest of wills going on between the innkeeper and young farmer Woodhull. ‘You can depend on it; there will be _other matters_ to attend to shortly. Give my respects to _your_ Mary?’

The young farmer started, as if stung. He gripped his hat and swung from the door without more than a civil nod.

Mrs Strong rounded on her husband as soon as the door swung shut.

‘What was _that_ about, Selah?’

‘Nothing, Annie. Farmer’s talk. Nothing more.’

‘You might have called me down sooner. And that was un-neighbourly, letting him leave like a stranger….’

‘His wife’ll _need_ him, Anna. She’s over eight months gone. Struggling around the farm alone with only a couple of field hands? What sort of fool leaves his wife alone at a time like that?’

When Anna next spoke, her voice was bleak and quiet. ‘That’s for Abe to decide, isn’t it? Besides,’ she gave a poor attempt at a carefree laugh, ‘Much you would know of that, Selah. Or I.’

There was a sharp scrape of a chair being pushed back from the next room. It sounded rather as though Selah had just leapt up from his chair. His voice, when he spoke, was appalled.

‘Annie… you know I didn’t mean…’

‘I know, Selah.’ Anna said wearily. ‘It just…struck me. That was all. I married you six months before Abe – I mean, before Abraham married Mary. And s _he’s_ \- God, she’s already with child. ..’

‘What does that matter?’ Selah’s voice was low. ‘You’re worth ten times more than that simpering china doll, Annie. And children! Children take… time. What, look at my mother! She’d been married to my father a full ten years before...’

There was a long silence. But it was full of more than words could possibly say.

‘Annie…’ Selah said gently – and very, very hesitantly, as though picking his way over red-hot coals. ‘You know… even if we – we had none. Ever. You - you don’t think I’d value you any less, do you? Or… ever…reproach you? You’re my _wife_.’

There was a choked sob from Anna.

‘Bless you for that, Selah. You’re too good for me, I know…’

Lizzie felt guilty at playing spy to such a tender scene. She should _not_ have been there to overhear. Hastily, she coughed and stamped her feet at the bottom of the stairs, so it sounded as though she was just coming down from above.

 

By the time she entered the empty little tavern, Mr Strong had vanished behind the little booth with his casks of beer and room, quill-pen in hand. Anna had surreptitiously wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron; and was all brisk smiles again, her armour back on.

‘There!’ she said quickly. ‘Pardon me, Lizzie. If you’re ready – I can make you an introduction with Mr DeJong…’

They left. But not before Lizzie darted a glance filled with new respect towards Selah Strong, huddled over his accounting book .

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mynheer Martin preferred to spend his leisure hours in the snuggery of whatever tavern would take him; which meant his daughter was often there with him, entreating him to come home in broken English and swift rapid-fire Dutch. He was not at home when the ladies called, although Miss Jenneke was.

Jenneke Dejong was the girl Lizzie had seen the first night they had arrived. She was a plump, blushing girl with long lank brown hair, free from curl, and a limp unstarched coif, and she barely had a word to say to Anna on the doorstep.

But Jenneke warmed to Lizzie. It was common ground, so to speak, a father who liked his taproom friends. She did not get on with her new mother, and she had few friends in Setauket. Company her own age was almost as novel as the painting. Lizzie was immediately invited into the warm DeJong kitchen; as Anna retreated, satisfied that her groundwork had been done.

‘You are… the painter’s daughter, yes?’ Miss DeJong said timidly hurrying over to the fire to tend a simmering pot, under the watchful eye of a kitchen maid. ‘ _Vader_ says you have travelled all the way from New York.’

‘Well, we lived there for a while...’ Lizzie had been too taken up by undoing her portfolio to observe the wistful note in Jenneke’s voice.

‘Oh, it is a big, fashionable city there, cousin Henrik says,’ Jenneke breathed, a dreamy look clouding her eye. The maid hastily intervened as the pot threatened to bubble over. ‘You can see the ladies walk up and down the street, in their silks – just so! And there is music and amusements, and cock-fighting if you like . Henrik saw it twice! And –‘

‘It wasn’t quite so grand where we lived,’ Lizzie smiled across the table. She knew a fellow dreamer when she saw one, and Jenneke clearly saw New York as some sort of Celestial City, replete with heavenly amusement and occupation. ‘Pa and I lodged on Moore Street. It was just a lodging-house. There was a linen-draper down the street, but it wasn’t a silk-merchant-’

Jenneke looked at her as if she was an idiot. ‘But you could _buy_ things,’ she said pityingly. ‘You lived in a _city!_ It is fashionable, to live in town. Cousin Henrik is going to live there when he is apprenticed to the Van Tuyls…’

‘Your cousin Henrik is a great traveller?’

‘Only when his father goes to town. Every six months. Still. Henrik has _been_ there!’ Jenneke sniffed, a look of disapproval crossing her face. ‘ _Clara_ has been to New York, of course.’

Clara DeJong was the subject of Lizzie’s painting, and the ‘pretty little wife’ of Mynheer Martin. Lizzie found her to be a giggling, rather shallow little thing, scarcely older than she was. She seemed ready enough when it came to looking after the DeJong brood, for Jenneke had seven smaller brothers and sisters– but she had a certain… sleekness, like a cat fed with cream.

‘She was in school with me, you know?’ Jenneke said suddenly. He hands twisted sharply about the fowl she was ostensibly plucking for dinner, tearing out feathers by the handful. ‘She is only two years older than me. But there! _Moder_ dies of childbed fever, and _Vader_ wants a new wife to warm his bed within a twelvemonth. And Clara – Clara has a nice fat dowry, too…’

Lizzie didn’t know what to say. In some ways, Pa was better than she realised. He had never inflicted a stepmother on her.

‘Is she – is she unkind to you?’ she ventured. Perhaps Clara made her daughters sit in the cold ashes in their bare feet, although Jenneke’s warm mulberry gown and the scurrying kitchen maids suggested otherwise.

‘I _wish_ she was,’ Jenneke said moodily. ‘No. Clara is not unkind. She… _tries_. But she would be happier if I were married, like my older sisters. With my _own_ household. But… this is _my_ home!’

It was a cry from the heart.

Jenneke, Lizzie silently realised, was much like Setauket itself.

Suddenly these polite, threatening almost-strangers were here, occupying your home, taking your place; emphatically pushing people away. It didn’t matter how hard they tried to get you to _like_ it. Or even if they were nice. And if you couldn’t leave, because it was the only place you could call home…

‘Couldn’t you… get away? Like your cousin Hendrik?’ Lizzie thought hard. ‘You could be prenticed to a milliner or something – something genteel-in the city…‘

She spoke encouragingly, thinking that might appeal to Jenneke, but the DeJong girl looked shocked. ‘A _shop girl_? ‘ she shook her head, furiously. ‘You forget; I have my family to consider. I am a DeJong. _Vader_ would never let me work like a common drudge…’

 _Except at home_ , Lizzie thought privately. But she kept that thought to herself.

‘What do _you_ want then, Jenneke?’ she asked, remembering that question of Mrs Strong’s that had so unnerved her during her first week. ‘Not what Clara wants, or your father. You.’

‘Me?’

A distracted, blushing look came over Jenneke’s freckled face. ‘I would like a husband, you know. A nice city husband. But there are no city men here in Setauket, apart from the soldiers…’ Jenneke giggled. ‘Though some of them _are_ handsome, yes? You are lucky. You see them all the time, living in the Strong tavern…’

‘Psh _, all_ the time!’ Lizzie retorted, amused. ‘I see you there too!’

‘Yes, but only when _Vader_ is in.’ Jenneke dropped her eyes. ‘Not always when _he_ is there…’

There was a whole world of longing in Jenneke’s voice.

Oh _dear_. Lizzie thought. It was like _that_ , was it? There was a village swain in the mix too.

‘Do you have a sweetheart in there? A Setauket boy?’ she asked coaxingly, peering at Jenneke’s crimsoning face under her linen cap.

‘N -not exactly.’ The Dutch girl had gone the colour of a ripe strawberry, ‘Ach, I should not say! I did not mean to tell so much…’ she threw her apron over her head in a fever of embarrassment – but Lizzie knew, from her own experience, that Jenneke _wanted_ her to ask, even as she protested. There comes a point in every fit of girlish calf-love where secrets can no longer be kept.

‘Is it… your cousin Hendrik?’

‘Hendrik does not drink in the Strong tavern! Besides, he lives out too far.’

‘Tom Sampson?’

‘He is a baby! Only _fifteen_!’

‘Oh? How old are you?’

‘Seventeen,’ Jenneke said proudly. ‘No. Still wrong. Guess again. _Not_ a Setauket boy…’

Lizzie looked askance.

‘ _I_ can’t tell, Miss DeJong. Tell me?’

‘He’s a soldier… _een knappe Engelsman_ , yes?’ Jenneke sighed. Lizzie knew no Dutch, but she followed enough – from the slight giggle of the kitchen maids. ‘So handsome!’

Oh _dear_. Lizzie found herself sincerely hoping Jenneke hadn’t fancied herself in love with the Major. “Scarlet fever” was all the rage in the British-occupied territories; from the professional women of the town (who knew a steady stream of customers when they saw them) to the tittering schoolgirls reading French novels under their desks. A great many women seemed to hanker for a man with ‘musket, pipe and drum’; _especially_ if he was an officer. Officers were presumed to be dukes in disguise, or, at the very least, wealthy – and they were at a premium on the marriage mart.

‘And he is a…?’ she prompted, delicately.

 

‘Oh.’ Jenneke paused, darting a quick glance behind her, before dropping her voice. ‘nothing… much. Not a great officer.’ Thank _God_ , Lizzie silently thought. There were enough problems with Jenneke’s hopeless passion as it was without _that_.

‘But he is handsome - handsome enough to be a general if he wanted!’

Jenneke apparently worked on the optimistic assumption that all officers increased in good looks as one ascended the ranks. Lord love us, Lizzie thought – surely she’d _seen_ Captain Joyce?

‘He has nice dark eyes, and once…’ Jenneke blushed pink as a peony. ‘He _smiled_ at me.’

‘ _And_?’ Lizzie nudged her. ‘Does he know that you-‘

‘Oh no!’ Jenneke’s hands fluttered up to her face. ‘No, he… he does not lodge in town. He lives with those farmers – oh…’ she waved one hand impatiently, searching for the words. ‘ _Hannah! De trotse Engels boeren?’_

 _‘De Woodhulls, Missen.’_ A maid put in.

‘Yes! The Woodhulls. So he is not in town… often. Except when he sits and takes ale…’

‘In the Strong Tavern?’

Lizzie understood why Jenneke went to retrieve her father herself, despite her flinching and evident discomfort. It was the slender chance of seeing _him_ ; whoever _he_ was.

But something else had pricked her curiosity. ‘The _younger_ Woodhull?’

‘ _Ja._ Mynheer Richard Woodhull’s son, Abraham.’ Jenneke sniffed. ‘H **e is… small.’**

_‘Een garnaal!’_

‘Yes, as Hannah says – a shrimp!’

Another titter rose around the kitchen. Master DeJong’s household clearly had no qualms about cheerfully eavesdropping on their young mistress, no matter whether the conversation was in Dutch or in English. Jenneke had almost-sisters rather than servants.

‘So…’ Lizzie said cheerfully. ‘Will you be asking for a wedding portrait then? In good time? I can _certainly_ arrange with Pa-‘

‘Ssssh!’

The sound of the DeJong door opening set Jenneke and the maids all in a flutter. A scared, blank look came over Jenneke’s face.

‘ _Vader_ is home,’ she said, holding one finger to her lips. ‘Mrs Strong must have sent him back…’

There was a marked hush when Mynheer Martin entered the room.

He proved to be a round-faced man, although his pink-cheeked countenance was seriously belied by his sharp manner.

‘You are the painter girl?’ he said irritably, passing his hat to a suddenly submissive kitchen-maid. ‘ _Ja_ , nothing here for you! Missis Strong has more time and money to waste than I….’ He made shooing motions with his hands, as though Lizzie was an errant chicken who had strayed into the kitchen by accident. ‘Cornelia? Show Missen Lowndes _out_!’

“ _Vader_!’ Jenneke jumped up, scandalised. An eloquent flood of Dutch followed, sharply interspersed with terse little shakes of the head from Mynheer Martin.

Lizzie stood there rather foolishly, portfolio clasped in her arms.

 _“Alsjeblieft! Ik vind haar aardig!”_ There was a definite note of entreaty in Jenneke’s voice – but Mynheer Martin clucked and fussed like a broody hen in his mother tongue.

‘No, thank you!’ he said firmly, as the chastened maid at last showed Lizzie the door. ‘Another time, not today!’

Jenneke followed close on her heels as she was all but pushed out of the DeJong house.

‘I’m sorry!’ she hissed, apologetically. ‘He has been with his banker today, he is alw _ays_ crochety. I should have remembered...’ she gulped. ‘ _Please_ , come again. On Saturday afternoon, he will be in the tavern then...’

‘What?’ Lizzie was rather dazed by this confusing see-saw of opinions. ‘But your father _said_ -‘

‘Never mind what he said!’ Jenneke said urgently, fishing in her pocket for something. ‘Please. I _need_ to speak with you. Come on Saturday!’

To Lizzie’s surprise, she pulled out a small leather book and thrust it into her hand. ‘I’m sorry!’

And then the door shut in Lizzie’s face.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes, by a long shot. It was certainly more perplexing than she expected. Why had Jenneke asked to see her again? It was very clear that Mynheer Martin held the purse-strings; and pretty young wife or not, he wasn’t willing to spend money on anything that didn’t _make_ money in turn.

But Miss DeJong had been so insistent; and then she gave her _this_ …

Lizzie turned the little quarto volume over and over in her hands. There was no title on front or spine, and the frontispiece was in Dutch, in a cramped, rusty print that made Lizzie’s eyes hurt just looking at it.

 _Emblemata amatoria_ was all that she could make. The author was a certain Pieter Corneliszoon Hooft.

What on _earth_ …?

Oh well. Lizzie shook her head and began to head back towards town. Perhaps Pa had somewhat better luck with his paintings today…

 

 Mr Lowndes had **not** had better luck with his paintings. He would have arrived home in a very irritable frame of mind, had it not been for the cordial invitation of Mr Woodhull - ‘So very agreeable my dear – picture of gentlemanly condescension!’ – to take a glass of port with him. One glass had turned into three, and three had turned into…

Well. However many it had taken for Pa to merrily reel his way homeward in the dark, loudly singing the “British Grenadiers” at the top of his voice. In light of Anna’s warning, it seemed a mercy he had made it back in one piece. Pa was happy as a schoolboy, and stumbled immediately to his bed; so there was no harm done.

But still, it made her breathless to think about what _could_ have happened. And tonight neither of the Strongs could have raised the alarm. They were “seeing to their household affairs” at Strong Manor; which, in light of the tender looks Lizzie had seen, might well have been a euphemism.

At least _someone_ was happy, Lizzie thought, as she pulled her nightdress over her head. Even if… there still seemed something faintly amiss with the Strongs. There was an underlying current of unhappiness that tugged Mrs Strong’s smile downwards. She wondered what it was; Setauket seemed to be full of secrets. The buried resentment of politics. The innkeepers. Not to mention the hapless Jenneke…

She turned over Mr Corneliszoon Hooft’s book by the flickering light of the greasy tallow candle. How on earth was she supposed to make head or tail of a book in _Dutch…?_

 

And then a spurt of black ink caught her eye.

Someone had written – in the careful square letters of someone only just able to write – just one line of writing on the flyleaf.

 

**His name is Ensign Baker.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to any Dutch readers out there for my terrible "Google Translate" Dutch. Any mistakes in grammar or syntax are entirely mine!
> 
> Jenneke's plea to her father is the rather childish 'But I like her!' Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work.
> 
>  
> 
> Pieter Corneliszoon Hooft is a famous 17th century Dutch poet, and one of the first and foremost literary members of the Dutch Golden Age! I really wanted to research the culture and background of Dutch settlers in America, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself doing it.


	6. A Little Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie receives two commissions, both of which surprise her...

_'Others with softer smiles, and subtler art,_  
_Can sap the principles, or taint the heart;_  
_With more address, a lover's note convey,_  
_Or bribe a virgin's innocence away._

                                                Dr Johnson, _London – In Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal_

 

Lizzie could have laughed, looking at Jenneke’s large, painfully angular handwriting. Miss DeJong’s manner had been so furtive, you would have thought there was a _far_ more desperate confession at the bottom of the whole affair; perhaps a secret engagement to Lieutenant Appleton, or a patriot officer locked in the DeJong larder being fed on a punishment diet of pickles and vinegar. But no. It was _Ensign_ Baker, of all things!

To think of Jenneke DeJong, with her proud Dutch antecedents, desperately creeping into the Strong tavern; running a gauntlet of rum-soaked drunks and tipsy privates simply on the slender chance that Ensign Baker was there? It…it boggled the mind.

Lizzie had been quite sure that pert, pomaded Major Hewlett would have been on the cards. There was a certain competitive …flutter amongst the Setauket ladies on Sunday parade, when the Major rode Bucephalus (or Penthesilea, a rather bad-tempered brown mare of his) into town, all resplendent in red and gold. After all, a senior officer: unmarried, with horses, income, and a good deal of power and influence in Setauket… Why, he was a Loyalist mama’s dream son in law!

As such, jealousies ran rife. If the Setauket young ladies had been permitted (in the course of fashionable life) to carry weapons, there would have been any amount of savage duels fought over the blissfully oblivious head of the Major. As it was, Lizzie imagined near-murder occurred on a regular basis in households with more than one marriage able daughter. But Jenneke had chosen a humble _ensign_ …

That said, Lizzie had a passing nod-and-smile acquaintance with Baker, who attacked the Strongs’ stock of cold ham and penny ale with a force and vigour rarely encountered over the breakfast table. You couldn’t mistake the signs of a man who had grown up hungry; it was in the eyes. Those sudden darts at the plate, as though it might be snatched away.

If she’d had to make a shrewd guess, Lizzie would have said that Mr Gareth Baker, ensign, had probably run away to the army. Away from the cold charity of an English parish, or a dubious future as a foundling apprentice.

But , although he was a rank and file man, it really wouldn’t have mattered if Ensign Baker had been a beggar-man with one eye and a peg-leg. There are some men who are gentlemen no matter what their station in life, and Ensign Baker, no matter his humble origin, was a gentleman born. He was always a little shy; clearly he had been made to feel his place as an upstart.

You could tell that the officers didn’t let him forget that he was a painfully obvious addition promoted from the ranks. Baker always sat apologetically away from the informal officer’s mess in the tavern, generally near the counter with a crony. But he was both considerate and kindly; quiet, well-mannered, and unassuming – all rare qualities in occupied territory. If you added to that the fact that Ensign Baker was also tall, well-formed, and with striking warm brown eyes, Jenneke’s passion did not seem so _very_ odd, after all.

In fact, it was quite reasonable. Lizzie inwardly approved her taste.

But – considering again, she remembered Jenneke’s obvious desire for secrecy, and her father’s evident pride in the noble lineage of the DeJongs. The equation was not a happy one. Especially when all the evidence pointed to the fact that Mynheer Martin was what her father would call ‘purse-proud’.

Mr DeJong would _certainly_ not take kindly to the fact that his daughter had fallen in love with a soldier. Soldiers generally had nothing but army pay to live upon; and even if he did look very well carry the company colours on parade days, Baker had less money than your average common recruiting sergeant. He was still paying off his commission. What didn’t go on that probably went on something for his lodging with young Mr Woodhull. Lord, Lizzie thought complacently, with vague wonder, what a problem money seemed to be! Pa never had any that lasted long enough to worry about. Pigments and canvas ate up anything left over from their food and board.

But unless Ensign Baker’s good looks dislodged General Howe from the head of the army as Jenneke wished, the prospects for a romance seemed rather bleak.

 

What on earth did Miss DeJong expect _her_ to do about it, though? Lizzie wondered, a little irritably. _She_ had no experience in such matters. It was evident that her city upbringing had led to a misunderstanding. Jenneke clearly thought she was a sophisticated confidante who ran passionate confidences under cover like a rebel privateer.

But…there was something in that to gratify Lizzie’s vanity. After all, she had read a good deal of Mr Shakespeare, and there had even been a few occasional visits to the York City playhouses with Pa and Alex. You couldn’t say she wasn’t _educated_. Maybe she _could_ help Jenneke.

A feeling of warm indignation rose up when she thought about Jenneke’s glum, wistful face by the fireside she could no longer call her own. Why not?

Jenneke would be a very good ensign’s wife; she would mend his shirts, and make him Dutch sweetmeats, and make him perfectly comfortable and happy. And Ensign Baker, after all, was a good man. Would it _really_ be so hard to bring the two together?

It was perhaps a touching example of Lizzie’s utter inexperience that she assumed courtship could be marshalled into a tactical plan of attack. But it was a sure-fire measure in plays and novels! Real life could hardly be so _very_ different, if you put your mind to it, Lizzie reasoned. Besides, helping Miss Dejong into blissful matrimony gave her a thrill of vicarious excitement. It was like _living_ in a story – some pretty comedy of manners, where reactions and consequences are all infinitely predictable.

 

Lizzie put down the defaced volume of poor Mr Hooft’s Dutch verse; crept out of bed, and went over to her small battered travelling-box, where her scanty supply of books were kept. If she was going to act the part of match-maker, she had better make ready her arsenal of knowledge…

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Saturday arrived, there was an air of dogged determination in her step that made Jenneke look up in surprise from her seat by the fireside.

‘Did you get the… the note?’ she whispered anxiously, looking into Lizzie’s face. ‘ About…’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie said firmly, shuffling the book over the table. ‘I know.’

Jenneke put her crimsoning face in her hands. ‘ _Ach_ … I am sorry,’ she said indistinctly between her fingers. ‘I didn’t know what else to do… and you are a city girl, yes? You know the proper fashions…’

‘Of course,’ Lizzie said reassuringly,, as she sat down on a joint-stool on the brick hearth. She found she rather relished her role as ‘experienced woman of the world’. ‘I can have it all in hand. I did proper work for you last night, Jenneke. I read all there is to know on courtship!’ she added, rather grandly.

‘You did?’

‘I read _Much Ado About Nothing_ cover to cover, last night – and _On Sentiment and the Softer Feeling.’_ Lizzie said proudly. ‘It was written by a _gentlewoman_ , no less.’

Jenneke’s face expressed a doubtful astonishment.

‘ _Ja_?’ she said politely, for want of something better to say. ‘That is… good?’

‘ _Very_ good,’ Lizzie said firmly, pulling the joint stool close into a conspiratorial huddle. ‘The best. Now, I have a plan. Is there such thing as an _arbour_ in Setauket?’

‘An arbour?’ Jenneke said, looking at Lizzie as if she’d gone mad. ‘ Like… a garden? We have only vegetables and _Moder_ ’s old herb border…’

‘Too bad. A rose-covered arbour would have been just the thing.’ Lizzie brightened, her eyes sparkling. ‘I thought that I could stage an artful conversation with Mrs Strong, loud enough to be overheard by Ensign Baker, where we speak of how _smitten_ with love you are for him-‘

Jenneke let out a shrill cry of horror. ‘NO!’ Her hands fluttered up in consternation to her face. ‘Not in front of… _him_! And you would have to tell Mrs Strong; my reputation would be _ruined!’_

_‘_ But… surely you want him to know?’ Lizzie looked baffled. She scratched her head in bewilderment. ‘How on earth is he to know?’

‘Not _that_ way! Besides – my _father_ drinks there!’

‘Oh.’ Lizzie hadn’t considered that. ‘No, that…wouldn’t do. What if I told…’

‘No! Jenneke said urgently. ‘No one else must know!’

Lizzie sat back on her heels before the fire, a little disheartened. Shakespeare had seemed such a sure-fire solution in the early hours of the morning. In the cold, prosaic light of a Saturday afternoon, her plan had certain… flaws. Real life, Lizzie reflected reluctantly, was certainly not as full of dramatic potential. It wasn’t even as romantic or _poetic_ as…

Fatally, Lizzie’s eyes fell on the volume of Dutch verse on the kitchen table.

Wait. Poetry – _poetry,_ now, was a definite possibility. You couldn’t ruin a reputation with romantic verse. You couldn’t sabre a sonnet. You could say everything – _anything_ you wanted to say in carefully phrased verse, and get away with writing under a pseudonym – to ‘Narcissus’ from ‘Chloris’. And if you wanted to make things plainer – why, you could disguise your handwriting, or write it backwards. Poetry had a thousand different ways of creeping in. And, best yet, Lizzie considered, it was a judge of moral character. No-one _unworthy_ could _ever_ write poetry. Nature wouldn’t allow it.

It hadn’t yet occurred to Lizzie that Ensign Baker did not _look_ as though he dipped much into poetry. But she was fired with enthusiasm; and Lizzie could be _very_ persuasive when she put her mind to it. It almost took on the colour of common sense. There would be a thousand opportunities for Lizzie to make sure the paper found its way into a uniform-coat pocket. Baker would receive Jenneke’s poetry like a miraculous fall of manna from heaven – a mysterious pellet of tender confidence and hope in ink and parchment. And if Jenneke grew confident enough to reveal her identity once she was sure of his affection…

Jenneke’s face lit up as Lizzie explained.

‘This is what your New York ladies do?’ she breathed, awestruck. ‘And Philadelphia ladies, too? Oh… that is very elegant.’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘Mynheer Baker is _clever_. Oh, how _he_ will be impressed! I will not be a silly farm girl, no – I will be – _zeer geavanceerde_!’

‘Most certainly!’ Lizzie cried excitedly, without the least idea what “zeer geavanceerde” meant. They grinned at each other across the hearth like a pair of naughty schoolchildren; partners in elegant crime.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, it wasn’t done at once. It took much cudgelling of wits over the kitchen table. As it turned out, Jenneke spoke English very thoroughly, but _writing_ it was an altogether different matter. Her father had not taught her very much beyond writing childish block capitals in Dutch. And as for _poetry_ …

She recoiled from the scrap of paper Lizzie proffered as though it was a snake, shaking her head stubbornly in spite of her best coaxings and pleadings.

‘I _can’t,’_ she squeaked, pushing away the quill. ‘ _You_ can! Write it for me.’

‘But it’s _supposed_ to be from you, Jenneke. I can’t write poetry that’s from you if I don’t know what I’m supposed to _say…_ ’ Lizzie was growing a little impatient at Miss DeJong’s reticence. ‘What _do_ you want to say?

 

Jenneke rocked backwards and forwards on her stool in indecision. ‘I… I … I _like_ him?’

Lizzie mentally rolled her eyes. ‘And that’s… all?’ She had expected a little more creative collaboration from Jenneke. If the handsome macaroni had ever appeared on the horizon, Lizzie would have had at least three heroic couplets down before you could count to ten.

‘No- no… ‘ Jenneke looked down at her fine cambric apron. ‘Um… I would like him to know that… that _someone_ likes him. In Setauket. And -oh please, Miss Lowndes! Write the fine poetry for me! If you do…’ Jenneke took a breath, ‘I have a gown I’ve only turned twice last season. If you write it, it’s yours! And it’s _silk_.’

‘You don’t need to _bribe_ me, Jenneke.’ Lizzie sighed. That was a lie. The silk was a handsome offer. ‘Fine, I’ll do it.’

‘You will?’

‘Later. I’ve spent too much time here as it is…’ Lizzie looked out of the small paned window. ‘I should go. Pa will need me to mix his paints over at Whitehall…’

 

She sighed. That wasn’t much of an excuse these days.

 

Lizzie had been avoiding Pa and the painting of late. He was still growling and snapping over his paints and canvas, but whenever Lizzie approached, he assumed a false jollity that was almost worse than when he was snapping at her. Lizzie _knew_ it was a counterfeit optimism. There was something amiss that Pa couldn’t – or wouldn’t- share with her. But he avoided any chance for private talk by plunging into the ribald revelry of the evening crowd. She could hardly challenge him over it in the presence of strangers and clients.

She could only hope he would tell her when he was ready.

But there was almost no _time_ to dwell on what was troubling Pa. There was too much _work_.

 

Mr DeJong had proved persistent in his refusal of Mr Lowndes’ services, so Lizzie was instead doggedly working – on the illustrious Bartholomew Lowndes’ behalf, of course– at the landscape of the soon-to-be-built Sampson house. “Bread-and-butter paintings”, as Pa called them.

It was slow, dull work – for Mr Sampson insisted on her ‘improving’ the painting with fictitious orchards and wheat-fields that made it look _nothing_ like the original. Every day, Lizzie tramped two miles out to the proposed site, and set up with sketching pencils and a chipped wooden easel. When it was fine, she occasionally chanced a furtive raid of Pa’s paints; but it was autumn, and the pinch of cold weather was setting in. There would be fewer fine days once the sharp jaws of winter _really_ began to close on Setauket.

 

At least Pa _had_ a makeshift studio to paint in, Lizzie thought longingly, as she bundled herself up into her shrunken wool cloak again, quietly letting herself out of the DeJong back door. Painting out-of-doors was bitter work …

 

* * *

 

 

She didn’t notice a sudden flash of blood-red straighten up outside the tavern as she hurried down the main street. There were soldiers everywhere, after all, and they came and went as they pleased. Setauket was as bright as a whore’s petticoat with men in scarlet, and Lizzie had stepped out with as bold a stride as her skirts would allow.

It was only when she was some little distance on the road to the Sampson farm, that there was a little false schoolmaster’s ‘ahem’ somewhere behind her – and Lizzie’s spirits immediately sank like a stone.

It was _him_ again.

Unfortunately, military duties in Setauket seemed to be _peculiarly_ light, if the vague perambulations of Lieutenant Simcoe were anything to go by. Lizzie wasn’t sure whether it was for the sheer devilment of the thing or some genuine suspicion of her and her father, but she acquired a colourless shadow whenever she took herself out on business in Setauket society.

Not _always_ , to be fair. Presumably the man did _something_ else with his time. But it had been more often than accident should allow.

Afternoon walks had become a complicated business. If she stopped to look in a shop window, she suddenly acquired a second reflection looming above her head with that faint, placid, never-changing smile. Elizabeth occasionally tried to be artful – she would double back on her usual route, changing direction like a fox trying to lose the scent of the hounds. She had once taken an otherwise deserted cliff path near the rocky shore where only the rock-pooling children and fishermen went, hoping to have a moment to herself; only to find the good Lieutenant languidly surveying the open sea against a rock, like an abandoned tailor’s dummy in full officer’s dress. Simcoe was clearly a hound of breed. He wasn’t so easily shaken off.

But what _was_ absolutely infuriating was his air of theatrical surprise; Lizzie gritted her teeth every time his Drury-Lane mimicry of ‘innocent astonishment’ came into play. It wouldn’t have fooled an _infant_. And it was insulting to pretend it was mere chance, finding a lieutenant delicately picking his way over rocks and seaweed like an oversized wading bird. Her only consolation was the sincere hope that the sea-mud had ruined his gaiters – and even that was soured by the fact she hadn’t made a _single_ tolerable sketch that day. Simcoe’s stare boring into the back of her neck had quite spoilt the whole outing.

Lizzie stopped dead, in the middle of the Sampson farm road. She was in no mood for games today.

‘I’ve not drawn the encampment again, _sir_ , and Pa’s been up at Whitehall painting the Major _in situ_ for the past two days.’ She said flatly, not turning round. ‘I’m going to draw _farmhouses_ , Lieutenant – dull, boring wooden _farmhouses_. And if I’m lucky, I shall get a whole twelve shillings and sixpence for it.’

Simcoe made a derisive noise at the back of his throat.

‘Riches _indeed_ , Miss Lowndes.’

‘Sneer at it if you like,’ Lizzie said, scowling, ‘It’s what the Sampsons can _afford_. And it’s what will keep my father and I in lodgings until the Major’s painting is done.’

‘Ah, yes, the Major’s painting.’ Simcoe said airily, easily falling into stride with Lizzie as she began to trudge on. ‘Tell me, _when_ will we see the finished work? Only your father does seem rather busy…’

Lizzie flicked a slightly uneasy glance upwards. The lieutenant was watching her expression from the corner of his eye, although he was superficially admiring the flat featureless swathes of Setauket farmland.

‘People have been good to us,’ she said, briefly. ‘Better than we expected, in such a quiet place. My father has had many commissions.’

‘Oh, quite.’ Simcoe agreed. ‘One might almost say: a _miraculous_ amount. To have mastered the art of being in at least five places at once is something I admire _immensely_ in Mr Lowndes.’

Lizzie froze.

_He thinks Pa’s a spy,_ That could be the only explanation. _Oh God,_ _he thinks Pa’s a spy…_ Lizzie could almost see a line of hemp slowly crawling towards her father’s plump throat.

She tried to say something, but her tongue had cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

‘It is a most curious thing,’ Simcoe continued blithely, ‘But it’s the only possible conclusion. After all, I find Mr Lowndes has barely set foot outside anywhere other than the inn, and Whitehall – and yet the man has managed to contract himself out for no less than _five_ daubs of one sort or another. And I find _two_ are already accomplished! And I’m told the Sampson fellow’s been boasting of a landscape, too, by the great portrait-painter…’

Lizzie cursed herself, inwardly. Why had she made that foolish, _foolish_ remark about the money? It didn’t seem as though the lieutenant thought Pa was a wicked rebel, true; but she had as good as confessed that Pa played little part in some of his ‘commissions.’ And from a certain gleam in one electric-blue eye, Simcoe _knew_ it.

Still, she made a valiant attempt to rally.

‘My father may be concentrating his… energies on the Major, for the moment,’ she said, shifting her bundle of paper and pencils a little under her arm. ‘But he truly _is_ the master. I may do a little … groundwork, on occasion – but every painting has … has a finishing touch, by the true master artist…’ Curse it, where was her smooth reasoning now? Under the myopic stare of the lieutenant it sounded unbelievably transparent; a child’s excuse.

Simcoe said nothing for a moment, allowing the idiocy of her own words to ring hollow in Lizzie’s ears.

‘Indeed?’ he said, deliberately. ‘That is… surprising.’

‘Well…’ Lizzie thought fast. ‘I suppose it’s like the army. Your common foot soldier contributes to the victory as much as anyone else – but it’s the strategy of the captain, say, or…’ Lizzie thought of Hewlett, ‘the major that wins the battle…’

It wasn’t an intentional shot, but two spots of hectic colour rose in Simcoe’s pale cheeks. He looked insulted.

‘What an _apt_ comparison,’ he said, with acid emphasis. ‘Especially as our good major is a desk-jockeying fool with little wit or ability to recommend him to the service. He and Mr Lowndes are _very_ well-suited.’

Lizzie’s knuckles went white around the bundle she was clutching.

‘Don’t _speak_ about my father,’ she said, her legs shaking with anger beneath her petticoats. ‘He has done _nothing_ to –‘

‘That is exactly my quarrel with him, Miss Lowndes,’ Simcoe returned, coolly. ‘He _does_ nothing. And whilst I’m sure his commissions do have – what was it you said? A “finishing touch by the _true_ artist?” I am equally sure that the artistry is by no means _his_.’

They had almost reached the half-built skeleton of the Sampson homestead. You could smell the freshly cut wood from thirty paces away.

‘Come. Miss Lowndes, allow me to be quite plain.’ Simcoe said in a low voice. ‘I understand your predicament.’

Lizzie was in a terrible position. It was clear, he knew about the commissions. But _how_ much?

‘You do?’ she said, cautiously. _Carefully, carefully…_

‘We both serve indifferent masters, after all,’ Simcoe had bent his head slightly, the better to look at her face, one hand solicitously cupping her elbow. ‘And a man’s reputation, after all, must be _essential_ in your father’s line of work. I _quite_ understand that…’

For all his apparent calm, Simcoe looked oddly… earnest. There was a faint sheen of sweat glistening on the man’s forehead; as though he were a wax doll melting in the sun. His fingers were beating out a nervous tattoo on the crown of his cocked hat.

Not for the first time, Lizzie found herself wondering if Simcoe was a little mad. She gingerly eyed the workmen going to and fro amongst the freshly cut beams and joists. There were people nearby, thank God. If he tried anything, if she _ran_ …

‘Yes?’ she said, her voice unnaturally high. ‘And?’

 

Simcoe unexpectedly let go of her elbow, turning to nonchalantly stroll a few feet away. He now appeared unaccountably interested in a rotten tree stump

‘It’s is a mere whim,’ he declared airily, ‘But I have a fancy for a portrait myself, and I am minded to pay a little more than paltry shillings and pence. If _Hewlett_ can afford to be immortalised in oils, better gentlemen should hardly lag behind…’

‘You want Pa to paint _you_ instead of Major Hewlett?’ Lizzie asked disbelievingly.

Simcoe looked vaguely irritated. His nostrils flared.

‘It pleases you to misunderstand me,’ he said stiffly. ‘Very well. I will be blunt. I will keep your _amiable-’_ he twisted his mouth around the word like a man tasting a lemon, ‘father’s secret, on one condition. I _want_ a painting.’ He blinked a little, before anchoring his gaze on Lizzie’s perplexed, half-frightened face. ‘From _you_.’

 

Lizzie gawped - just a little - before remembering both her manners and her common sense.

‘I have told you before, I am a _gentlewoman!’_ she said, heatedly _._ ‘You can hardly expect me to-‘

‘To _what_?’ Bless her soul, the Lieutenant sounded a little affronted. ‘You have no trouble painting country _provincials_ , madam...’

‘That’s _different_.’ Lizzie argued. ‘I paint families, married couples, and people with children-’ Even pigs, she thought silently to herself. One of the local farmers had been _very_ keen on her painting a favourite prized saddleback sow – although she didn’t share that particular slice of information. The lieutenant seemed annoyed enough as it was; he would not take kindly to the notion that Farmer Marshall’s “Betsey” was a more suitable subject than himself.

‘It would not be _proper_ for me to paint you,’ she said stiffly, instead. ‘You are a single gentleman. I am an unmarried woman. The very _notion_ of a sitting would be -‘

‘Inappropriate?’ To her surprise, Simcoe nodded, the corners of his mouth turning upwards a little into another faint, unnerving smile. ‘Of _course.’_

Lizzie had been prepared for argument. This sudden yielding on Simcoe’s part made her stop mid-breath.

‘Er…what?’

‘Why, far be it from me to suggest anything _improper_.’ Simcoe laid one hand theatrically over his heart. ‘ _Especially_ to an unprotected lady...’

Coming from a man who had made the singularly apropos comment about horseflesh, Lizzie had to bite back a derisive snort. But she was curious as to how he would go on.

‘Of course, fashionable society is not as severe as the backwaters of Long Island,’ the lieutenant continued, blithely. ‘Why, in London there are any amount of very worthy and respectable ladies, who do nothing but paint lords and admirals all day long, and no-one attaches such _very_ strict notions of propriety to _their_ sittings...’

‘They don’t?’

Alas! Lizzie had an Achilles heel. It was that unfortunate new-found vanity of hers - the secret delight she took in being thought a witty lady of manners. Jenneke’s awe for her city upbringing had already half-turned her head; she was very close to believing it herself. And whether by chance or by skill, Simcoe had spoken of fashionable society as though it were quite… natural that Lizzie should know about it. Even if it was a man she heartily disliked… well.

It was quite _fatal_.

Besides, there was a tiny part of Lizzie that was quite… gratified as being asked to paint on her own merit. It was folly, and stupid, and certainly not common sense – but there it was.

She hesitated.

‘London isn’t Long Island,’ she said, grudgingly, ‘But… I’m not entirely provincial, Lieutenant. And I wouldn’t like to be thought ungrateful. Or insensible to your… discretion, about my father.’

Simcoe said nothing. His pale eyebrows lifted a little, perhaps, anticipating victory; but he was otherwise almost unreadable; waiting. Watching her face closely for a reaction.

‘So…’Lizzie sighed. ‘If you _would_ like to arrange a portrait sitting…’

And there it was; something approaching an actual human emotion crossed Simcoe’s face. It wasn’t _much_ better than his usual death’s head smile, but it was an improvement. His fingers had stopped beating out an agitated drummer’s march on his hat. He looked genuinely _pleased._

‘At your own leisure, of course,’ he said amiably, with disarming politeness. ‘If tomorrow permits?’

‘I- well- yes…’ Lizzie stuttered, before recovering her wits. What was she, a _ninny?_

‘It will have to be the afternoon, mind!’ she said sharply, attempting to recover a morsel of self-respect by at least dictating _some_ terms. ‘Midday. In the back parlour at the tavern. And if you’re late, I-’

‘Believe me, I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Simcoe made her a deep bow, accompanied by one of his unblinking basilisk stares. ‘Your servant, Miss Lowndes.’

And with that, he strode away smartly back down the road towards Setauket, careless as you please.

Lizzy waited until he was at a good distance before she let her legs give way. She sat down abruptly on the tree-stump, dumbfounded.

 

Another _complication_ to add to the mix.

 

 


	7. A Painter's Studio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie keeps her word, against her better judgement...

_These pictures and a thousand more_

_Of thee my gallery do store_

_In all the forms thou canst invent_

_Either to please me, or torment:_

_For thou alone to people me,_

_Art grown a numerous colony;_

                                                Andrew Marvell, The _Gallery_

 

 ‘You did _what?!_ ’

Lizzie winced. She hadn’t known Mrs Strong had a particularly loud voice; and normally, she didn’t. However, asking to use the private parlour for a sitting had elicited questions – and worse, _exclamations._ Especially when she found out exactly _who_ Lizzie’s new client was.

Lizzie found herself standing shame-faced in the centre of the Strong kitchen, hands clasped behind her back like a child in disgrace. Anna was kneading bread-dough at the table, her eyes flashing sparks.

‘You know, I credited you with some _sense_ when I met you, _’_ Anna gave the dough a particularly fierce set of blows; one-two-three, _jab_ – like a professional boxer. ‘I thought: there’s a smart girl. _She_ knows how to take care of herself. I don’t need to worry about _her_. And now…what do I find? You’ve only got yourself entangled with _that_ viper- _’_

' He knew about _Pa_ , Anna!’ Lizzie protested. ‘About the paintings!  I _had_ to. To protect Pa-’

It was on the tip of Anna’s tongue to say: _every man and his dog in Setauket probably knows about your father, Liz. Anyone with eyes in their head_. But she looked over at Lizzie’s pink-cheeked, obstinate face and held her tongue.

‘Maybe your father wouldn’t _want_ you to protect him this way,’ she said instead. ‘Ever think of that? I _told_ you about Simcoe, Lizzie. I thought you listened.’ She dusted flour over her hands, glaring at the dough with a worrisome ferocity. It was as though General Howe were smarting under her patriotic rolling pin. ‘I’ve a good mind to tell your father myself…’

 

Lizzie took a few steps forward. ‘Really? You’ve seen Pa, Anna. What do you think he _could_ do?’

Anna hesitated at that, thinking over Mr Bartholomew Lowndes from powdered head to down-at-heel foot.

Mr Lowndes… Mr Lowndes would waffle. He would bluster about his wounded pride, his daughter’s honour. He might even take it upon himself to be tipsily _offended._ She could see it now _:_ Mr Lowndes, awash on a rum-scented sense of his own dignity, challenging a basilisk like Simcoe. It wasn’t hard to imagine the result.

Lizzie watched the vague horror that flitted across Mrs Strong’s face. ‘You see? She said simply. There was no resentment there; she was simply stating a fact. ‘I don’t want Pa horsewhipped out of town, Anna. _Or_ shot.’

‘Fine,’ Anna said grimly, ‘I’ll refuse Simcoe for you. He won’t horsewhip _me_. And if he tries…’ She brought the rolling pin down hard, like a club. It made a nasty little ‘crack’ on the kitchen table.

‘There’s no need for that, either!’ Lizzie pulled off her cap in frustration, running one hand through her hair. ‘Look… I can protect Pa. I’m _good_ at it. I’ve had years of practice! It doesn’t mean I’m going to be _stupid.’_ She took a calming breath. ‘I can paint in the tack room in the stables.’

‘The _stables_? Are you mad?’

‘It’s public, isn’t it? There are always people going in and out. I can move my paints and easel there; I’ll say you… didn’t want oil paint on your carpet, or something. Anything that makes sense.’

Anna looked dubiously at her. ‘You think that will work? It’s a nasty risk, Lizzie. Just for your Pa.’

A shadow crossed her face. ‘I never told you about what happened to Lieutenant McCarthy, did I? In that tavern brawl…’

‘Lieutenant who?’

‘Oh, he was a young scrap of an Irishman.’ Anna soberly resumed her dough-kneading. ‘He was quartered here before Appleton. He was a good-looking young rogue – a bit of a hothead with his liquor, but _that’_ s hardly anything new. They all are. But…’ Anna swallowed. ‘He’d been making merry with Captain Joyce, you see – and the young fellow starts poking fun at Simcoe. Calls him a milk-and-water Englishman, with curdled cheese for brains. It was all mess room banter. But…

Lizzie felt a chill run down her spine. ‘Simcoe didn’t see it that way?’

‘I’ve never seen a man look more like murder.’ Anna said, quietly. ‘But… he took it quietly enough. Until McCarthy lurches past him and spills his ale. And _laughs…_

The way Anna told it, Simcoe had simply sat there frozen for one moment, two pink spots of angry colour in his pale cheeks. The next minute, all hell had broken loose. Something had _snapped_ in the man. He’d turned with a bottle in one hand and-

Lizzie gulped.

‘What happened to him? The Irishman?’

‘McCarthy? Oh, he was _alive_. Just.’ Anna shrugged. ‘Joyce and the rest managed to pry Simcoe away before he beat him to death; the regiment has an army surgeon. He managed to fix most of his face, but he had both arms broken – and three cracked ribs. And they say he was _lucky_. Next thing any Setauket folk knew: Appleton’s here, and McCarthy’s invalided out – gone to Staten Island to recover. He transferred to the Volunteers of Ireland once he’d healed up.’ Anna gave a humourless laugh. ‘Can’t say I blame him.’

‘And …Simcoe?’

Him? Hah!’ Anna gave the dough another punishing smack with her rolling pin. ‘Joyce didn’t want any _questions_ asked about why his officers were tearing each other to pieces. He covered it up. The way they _all_ cover for each other. He may have got an official reprimand – but what’s that worth, to a man like him? Nothing!’ Anna looked up, to stare hard across the table at Lizzie. ‘ _That’s_ the man you’ve agreed to paint tomorrow, Lizzie. Alone. And I’ve heard _worse_ stories…’

 Lizzie looked stricken. She stared blankly at the floor tiles, chewing her lip in indecision.

But then she looked up again.

‘I _protect_ Pa.’ She said. ‘It’s what I do.’

‘Did you _hear_ a word I _said-_ ’

‘ _I said I protect Pa_!’ Lizzie said loudly. She had bunched her hands into fists, as though about to do battle. ‘This is the best place we’ve been in a long while, Anna. Pa’s doing well here. He’s painting the Major! He’s mixing with gentlemen, which he likes best. He feels _appreciated_. And there’s plenty of work! If I can keep it that way for Pa, I _will_. ’ she took a deep breath. ‘I’ll take my chances. I have to.’

 ‘Hmm,’ said Anna, grudgingly. ‘As you say.’  She dusted the flour from her hands onto a corner of her apron, still shaking her head. ‘You’d try and keep a man like that away from your Pa _by yourself_?’

‘If I can.’ Lizzie ducked her head. She was growing weary of the argument – it had been a long day. ‘I’m going to my room to read, Anna. I’m tired.’

‘As you please.’ Anna, having beaten the dough to death, was now coffining it brutally in a bread pan. ‘Supper’s at six. I’d eat well.’ She added, dryly. ‘Might be your last meal.’

Lizzie hardly heard her. She reeled rather than walked up the stairs to her room.

She’d almost forgotten all about the poetry, in all the fuss. The _real_ business at hand, so to speak.

I should do that before I go to bed, Lizzie thought tiredly to herself. _That_ would be easy, at least. She owed it to Jenneke.

There was a scrap of parchment on her portable writing desk that she used to test out her tints when painting. Lizzie pulled it over and hastily scrawled a quick motto.

 

_Alas! Unhappy a Maid in Setauket shall be,_

_Whilst the proud son of Mars thinks nothing of me…_

 

There, she thought hazily. _That_ was done. The verse was basic at best, but it would do. It might be a stretch to call Baker a ‘proud son of Mars’, perhaps, but soldiers were always sugared over with heroic adjectives in poetry. She might perhaps have worked in something about triumphant laurel wreaths, if she’d had more energy…

I’m going to _sleep_ , Lizzie thought, squeezing her eyes shut, attempting to block out the sounds of ‘Hearts of Oak’ being roared out in merry discord below. Jenneke, at least, didn’t provide much difficulty.

Tomorrow… tomorrow might prove rather _different_.

 

* * *

 

 

The story about the unlucky Lieutenant McCarthy must have preyed on Lizzie’s mind, or the hunk of mutton pie at dinner had disagreed with her. Whatever the cause, she had terrible dreams.

She was frantically painting the walls of the Strong Tavern with nothing more than a camel-hair brush. The paint had leaked all over her hands, becoming a horrible, bright crimson – and then suddenly the walls melted away, to become a terrified bloodstained face…

And she was lashing out with her _fists_ -

‘Agh!’ In sleep, Lizzie reared back , thrashing – and promptly cracked her own head against the wall.

‘Lizzie?’ Pa’s voice floated around the door. It was still dark. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Pa?’ Lizzie blearily staggered out of bed. ‘I thought you were sleeping the night at Whitehall…’

‘I thought I’d see how you were faring. Haven’t seen you in a while, m’dear!’

The faux-cheerfulness was still in Pa’s voice, Lizzie thought with dim foreboding as she unlatched the door. And Mr Lowndes’ face was lit up from within with the pink inner-glow of the magistrate’s good brandy. But otherwise, he seemed the same old Pa.

He peered past her at the tangle of blankets on the floor.  ‘Mercy, child – who were you fighting? The French?’

Lizzie shivered a little.

‘Irish,’ she mumbled. ‘I think…’

‘Well. As long as you won.’ Pa said amiably. He suppressed a tipsy belch, genteelly, behind one hand. ‘I have an invitation to supper for us, by the bye. You’re invited. Magistrate… very int’resting man… wants a picture of his daughter…daughter-in-law… something. Anyway, _v’ry_ promising…’

‘Hadn’t you best be in bed yourself, Pa?’ Lizzie said gently, steering him in the direction of his own room.

Pa bobbed along like a tethered balloon, leaking drunken sentiment all the way. ‘Y’see, Lizzie – that’s the sort of thing I want for you, y’know? Ladies. _Proper_ ladies. Not grubby little shopkeepers and… and…’Pa waved a hand. ‘ _Landladies_. We are moving _upwards.’_

‘That’s nice,’ Lizzie said placidly, gently pushing Pa through the door. ‘Glad to hear it, Pa. You go to sleep now, you hear? It’s nearly three.’

 Moving _upwards_ , she thought, a little sourly, as she stumbled blearily back to her own bed. _Hah._ Yes. Pa didn’t know how quickly they’d have been kicked out of Setauket if she hadn’t painted shopkeepers, landladies and farmers. And they’d been kinder than any amount of port and condescension from Mr Woodhull senior, magistrate of Setauket.

 Besides, by Pa’s logic, tomorrow’s dreaded sitting would be _moving upwards_ from shopkeepers and landladies.

It would probably have not given Lizzie any peace of mind to know that Pa would encourage it in the name of social mobility. _Nothing_ could make being obliged to paint Lieutenant Simcoe particularly palatable.

Peculiar, really. Lizzie found herself puzzling over the man. He quite casually trampled over other people’s sensibilities, but the lieutenant was touchy as a wasp over anything that seemed to affect his _own_ dignity. He appeared quite perplexed and affronted when challenged, as though it had _barely_ occurred to him that other people might possibly have their feelings too …

Perhaps it hadn’t. But surely, Lizzie argued with herself, _surely_ no-one could be quite so…so…

 _Childish_ , was the word that floated to the front of her mind. A small child’s petty disdain for anyone else.

But there was one thing Anna had overlooked about the man, Lizzie thought, as she punched her pillow into a more comfortable shape.  She recognised the - the _weakness_ , if you like, because she had it herself.

However distasteful his manners or speech might be, Lieutenant Simcoe _wanted_ to be a gentleman.

 Pa pretended to be one, but he could shrug it off as he pleased – he’d spent too long as an artist to really have any pretensions. Wasn’t it all just smoke and mirrors to him?

 But she had the odd feeling that Simcoe _needed_ the ‘smoke and mirrors’ more than Pa. Whatever else there was in that peculiar casing, there was a certain odd desire to be well thought of; even if he did do absolutely nothing to deserve it.

From Anna’s story about the unlucky Lieutenant McCarthy, it sounded as though apologies were as rare as hens’ teeth in Simcoe’s case. But in her case, he had… moderated his behaviour, upon reproach. That was something. It was a rather small and flimsy guarantee of safety, true - but it _was_ there.

That was her last thought, before she drifted back to sleep again. In face of all evidence to the contrary, Simcoe thought _himself_ a gentleman…

She’d just have to encourage him to try harder.

* * *

 

 The thought was not quite so consoling next morning.

Anna was doling out breakfast with a stern face; always a sign of some inner contention. When she saw Lizzie her eyebrows drew together.

‘Seen reason?’ she said shortly. ‘It’s not too late, you know. I can-‘

‘ _No_ , Anna.’

Mrs Strong’s lip twitched, slightly. ‘Your choice. I suppose.’ She turned and began to pointedly polish the table knives laid out shining on the counter. ‘If you want to borrow one, feel free. But bring it back _clean_ after you’ve stabbed him.’

 

Lizzie did her best to ignore that suggestion. She had a feeling Anna wasn’t joking.

 

But then she raised her eyes, and there, in front of her, was a sight to lift her spirits: the tavern almost empty, and Jenneke’s own true love, Ensign Baker, drinking down warm barley soup in his shirtsleeves. It was a moment made in heaven for any would-be matchmaker.

‘Why, Ensign _Baker_!’ Lizzie cried, gladly.

The ensign started, unused to such a warm reception. A blob of pearl barley landed on the table. ‘Oh, damn – I mean, er, oh! Sorry, miss. Didn’t expect company.’ Baker looked faintly apologetic. ‘I wouldn’t normally be in here – only Missis Woodhull’s gone for her lying in at her father-in law’s. Breakfast’s…’ he grimaced, ‘better here than in barracks.’

‘What,’ Lizzie said merrily. ‘Young Mr Woodhull isn’t cooking your breakfast for you?’

There was a deep, loud snort from Mrs Strong’s direction. ‘What, _Abe_?’ she shook her head. ‘Stick to the suppers we give here, Ensign, if you value your stomach.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Ensign Baker said humbly, dipping his spoon back in his broth.

Lizzie had some thought about sneaking the twist of poetry carefully concealed up her sleeve surreptitiously towards his pocket. Ensign Baker’s dress-coat lay oh-so-temptingly close to hand on a nearby stool. It would be so _easy_ …

‘What about you, Miss Lowndes?’ Mrs Strong asked sharply. ‘It’s nearly eleven. Don’t you want something?’

Lizzie’s hand froze half-way to her pocket. _Drat_.  Playing Cupid would have to wait.

‘I’ve got to set up in the stables now. But Mr, ah, Baker? You _will_ come back for supper, won’t you?’ Lizzie said earnestly. ‘It’s _very_ important you do.’

Baker’s brow wrinkled slightly. ‘It…is?’

‘Very.’ Lizzie’s cheeks flushed slightly, at the lies she was about to tell.  ‘My father wants a game of cribbage, if you’ve the time. He’ll be back by then.’

The ensign looked baffled; but he smiled, and bobbed his head. ‘If Mr Lowndes wants, Miss. No trouble. ‘

‘Good!’ Lizzie said, trying to suppress a grin. There. Jenneke’s task might work out, after all. If only (oh please) there was some sort of onerous military duty keeping the senior officers caged in their wooden meeting-house eyrie…

 

The inn door opened behind her as she gathered together her brushes.

‘Lord! I – sir! Good morning, sir!’

Ensign Baker hurriedly tried to get to his feet and salute. In his haste, he up-ended the half-finished bowl of barley broth – which went _everywhere_.

Both Anna and Lizzie stared in horror at the ugly yellow stain spreading out over his pristine white waistcoat-front.

‘Oh dear.’ Simcoe’s clear, icy voice rang out over the room. ‘What a _mess_. I hope you have time to change before drill, Baker. Joyce is _very_ particular about uniform…’

Baker’s eyes were fixed in shame on his shoes. ‘At once, sir.’ he murmured – and fled in a half-crouch, hands clutching his stomach as though he’d been shot.

 

The lieutenant certainly seemed to follow his own advice, when Lizzie ventured to look up. Simcoe had evidently taken particular care with his dress for his portrait. The brim of his cocked hat had been severely pinched into regularity. The usual dull red dress-coat had been exchanged for one of an eye-popping scarlet, so fresh it might as well have just come from the dyers – and there was a suspicion of starch about his cuffs and collar. Even his sash looked freshly-pressed. 

Lizzie pitied his laundresses, whoever they were. They weren’t paid nearly enough.

Simcoe evidently mistook the ladies’ dumbfounded looks for admiration, for he looked down at himself with an absurd amount of pride.

‘I like to lead by example,’ he remarked. ‘For the rank and file, you know.’

‘Indeed,’ Anna muttered, under her breath. ‘And _what_ an example it is…’

Lizzie threw her a warning look. But Simcoe hadn’t heard her. He was giving another one of his expectant delicate coughs.

‘You certainly look very…suitable for your portrait, sir,’ Lizzie said, carefully. ‘Very impressive.’ She plucked a piece of paper from her portfolio and sat promptly down at the bar. ‘If you have no objections, we’d better attend to the contract first, if Mrs Strong will be so good to be witness…’

Anna stared blankly at her. So did the lieutenant.

‘Of course a contract,’ Lizzie said briskly. ‘You asked for a _painting_ , Lieutenant, didn’t you? You want something in writing. A guarantee, if you like. After all,’ and here Lizzie smiled, ‘I _want_ you to agree to my fee.’

‘Money?’ Simcoe blinked at her vaguely. ‘Oh. I suppose so. What’s Hewlett paying?’

‘The _Major_ is paying my father twenty guineas.’

 It was quite a pleasure, seeing the way Simcoe scowled at the title of ‘major.’  One muscle beneath his eye twitched.

‘But of course, we can make accommodation for _smaller_ purses, Lieutenant,’ Lizzie continued, with a poisonous niceness she might have stolen from the lieutenant himself. ‘So if we make five-guinea increments per rank, my fee for you will be… ten?’

‘I can afford more than _ten_ ,’ Simcoe said sharply. Ah, there it was. That little tell of the Lieutenant’s. She hadn’t been wrong, after all. He was a little jealous of Major Hewlett, was he? He didn’t like being thought inferior. And there was that need to prove a rich gentleman again…

Lizzie pressed her advantage hard. She hadn’t forgiven his remarks about Pa.

 ‘Lieutenant- you must have other expenses!’ she cooed, in a coy, fluttered voice. ‘I couldn’t possibly burden you with an outrageous bill _beyond_ your means…’

Simcoe’s stare hardened. ‘I can match Hewlett’s purse any day. _Twenty_ , I think you said?’

‘Can I not persuade you-‘

‘No,  Miss Lowndes, you cannot. _Twenty_.’

Anna cast an incredulous look at Lizzie over the bar.

 _Got you,_ Lizzie thought triumphantly, as the Lieutenant scrawled a hasty receipt. The pen squeaked. _I’ve got you cornered now sir. I have your measure._ It may have taken a little longer than with Captain Joyce – but there were ways to navigate around haughty Lieutenant Simcoe.

‘Well then, sir.’ She said, with satisfaction.  ‘If you’ll please step this way?’

  

* * *

  

The Strong tavern had large livery stables; remnants of a line of business Selah Strong had taken over from a less fortunate Setauket businessman. The tackroom was a light, airy place once Lizzie had moved some of the horse trappings into a corner. It even had a small brick stove built into the corner for cold winter days – which was luxury indeed for any groom. With her paint-brushes and powders set out ready for mixing before her on the rickety bench, and Pa’s old easel propped up – why, it could almost have been an artist’s studio.

But there were no artistic props. Lizzie had to make do with a wooden mounting block and one faded  tapestried chair that Anna had taken from the second-best bedroom in the inn.

For the first time, Lizzie glanced down at the paper in her hand, mildly curious.  She had never found out the man’s first name. It would probably be as well to learn that, as well as his weaknesses. After all, he knew _hers_ …

The handwriting was an untidy, spidery scrawl.

 

_Lt. John Graves Simcoe._

 

 ‘Your name is _John_?’ Lizzie said, without thinking. It was hardly polite to sound so doubtful of his Christian name, but she had expected something less… ordinary. Something grand and austere.

He didn’t look at all like a plain old ‘John.’

Simcoe had taken off his hat on entering the stable – but he visibly started when she said his name, as though he scarcely recognised it. The tense drumming of his fingers began again in earnest on his cockade.

‘It was the name my parents gave to me. Yes.’ he said. The words seemed to escape him with difficulty.

That was something to remember about the man, Lizzie thought. _Is not used to own first name_.

‘And… “Graves”?’ she prompted.

‘Oh, _that.’_  Simcoe visibly preened a little at the question. ‘I was named for my godfather. You may have heard of him?’ he added. ‘ _Admiral_ Samuel Graves? He won the Seven Years War almost single-handed in the Battle of Quiberon Bay.’ His mouth turned upwards, into another of his unnerving, humourless smiles. ‘I was recommended by him for the service. You might say I come from a… martial line.’

Lizzie’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, a little impressed despite herself. The lieutenant was undoubtedly exaggerating his ‘illustrious’ godfather’s participation, but most people had heard of the Battle of Quiberon Bay. It had turned the famous French navy into so much splintered matchwood.  And the well-placed godfather did explain how a man who seemed so universally… well, _disliked_ \- had become an officer.

 ‘So. What would you like in the way of your portrait, Lieutenant?’ she said, settling herself purposefully down on her stool. ‘Full length? Half-length? I can do ovals, but making the frame takes time…’

But Simcoe hadn’t sat down. He had drifted silently out of sight towards the back of the room, where a faint rattling noise told Lizzie he was poking idly through her carefully sorted collection of sketching pencils. It was an old soldier’s trick. You kept your opponent in sight, at all times, whilst making them uneasy by moving just out of their line of sight. Making them _nervous._ Lizzie thought he simply liked to hide his hand, like an experienced card player.

‘That’s rather up to you, isn’t it?’ he said lazily, ‘ _You_ are the artist, madam. I leave the manner and method entirely up to you.’

Elizabeth tethered herself firmly to her stool by both her hands, trying to rein in her fraying temper.

After all those sly insinuations and dark hints about her father, his bored indifference had finally exhausted her store of goodwill. She pressed her lips together, put down her brush, and sat deadly still.

After five minutes of hotly mutinous silence, even the lieutenant couldn’t fail to notice something was wrong.

‘I have offended you?’

Lizzie stared fixedly at the floor.

There was a soft step behind her. Unexpectedly (and a little too close for Lizzie’s liking) a pale face leaned down towards her from on high, studying her face with a curious eye.

‘Ah. I _have_ annoyed you, I see. You look displeased, Miss Lowndes.’ He slowly cocked his head on one side, so all Lizzie could see was those too-wide eyes, a slight hint of aquiline nostril. ‘You should not be so quick to take offence. I merely meant it as a compliment to your profession.’

‘My _profession_?’ Lizzie said suspiciously, edging her stool away.

‘Or your own area of expertise, at least.’ Simcoe veiled his hypnotic stare for once, dropping his eyes to the floor. ‘I was reluctant to admit my own scanty knowledge of the forms of… portrait-sitting. I have never –‘ he caught himself sharply. ‘I _mean_ , I have only _infrequently_ sat for a painting myself. On occasion. In England.’

‘Oh! I see.’ Lizzie said, a wry smile twitching across her face. ‘I understand, sir. You want _direction_.’

She understood _completely_. There was that gentleman’s pride again, mingled with a sulky child’s disinclination to admit inexperience. She would have bet her twenty-guinea fee that Simcoe had never as much as set foot inside an artist’s studio, in London or out of it.

 But she simply smiled, instead. ‘In that case, if you’d care to take a seat? – or stand, as you please. However you would like to arrange yourself.’

She wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

Now, Lizzie had seen any amount of poses for her father. Fat gentlemen liked to be seated, young gentleman liked to nonchalantly lounge against a plinth, or a draped urn. Serious men liked a skull under one hand, lively young men liked a wine bottle or a fiddle… she’d seen it all – even down to the gentleman from Philadelphia who had requested being painted in a lion-skin like Hercules.

But she hadn’t yet seen _anything_ like Lieutenant Simcoe.

After some solemn consideration of the mounting-block, the lieutenant had set one booted foot upon the chair and assumed what Lizzie thought of as the ‘Triumphant Conqueror’, one hand propped affectedly on his hip, chin jutting nobly towards the rafters.

She would have had to be made of stern stuff not to show a flicker of amusement.  After a few minutes appreciative gawking at the spectacle, Elizabeth repressed a snort and came around the easel.

‘What’s _that,_ sir?’

Simcoe stiffened. ‘You told me to –‘

‘I meant a _natural_ pose, Lieutenant. Not Attila the Hun counting his piles of skulls.’ In the heat of  creative impulse Lizzie had quite forgotten her previous wary reserve . ‘Put your leg _down_ , sir. That’s a trick my father uses for shorter men, in any case. It gives them the appearance of stature. You _certainly_ don’t need that.’

Simcoe stared, but he did as she said. He looked vaguely stunned.

Lizzie made a frame with her fingers; looking intently over her subject, head to toe – although she wasn’t exactly _seeing_ him – or the badly whitewashed wall behind him. She was seeing the picture in her head.

‘Too _distracting_ ,’ she muttered, under her breath. ‘Won’t do. You’ll have to sit, Lieutenant.’ She dusted the muddy footprint from the tapestried chair. ‘I hope Anna doesn’t value that very much…’

Lizzie made the frame again, caging her prospective model between finger and thumb. ‘Your _height_ , Lieutenant Simcoe. It’s a fine, grand height – excellent in a military man. But in a painting it could be a little… overwhelming. It distracts the eye too much. We are aiming for something more… _genteel_.’

‘Genteel,’ Simcoe repeated blankly. The Lieutenant had dropped his hat on the stable-block upon getting down, but his fingers were still beating out a frantic refrain on his scarlet surtout. He looked … lost.

 Lizzie hadn’t noticed. She was heaving the wooden chair over into a corner, maintaining an enthusiastic running commentary.

‘If we move the chair _here_ , like _this_ … yes…The angles of the wall will enfold you rather nicely, I should say. Gives the illusion of being… enthroned, so to speak.’ She smiled at her own joke. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think? As a King’s man?’

‘What?’ Apparently Lizzie’s quick-fire artistic critique had gone a little beyond Lieutenant Simcoe.

He had been following the way her hands moved in idle fascination as she sketched an imaginary throne against the dusty whitewash. His eyes were glassy and distant, like a sleepwalker’s. Lizzie didn’t believe he’d heard a single word she’d said.

‘I said the – oh, _never_ mind.’ She pointed towards the chair. ‘Sit.’

Simcoe sat, obediently – although he sat rigidly, military fashion, head held ramrod-straight, hands clenched awkwardly in his lap. A bad waxwork of a man, at best.

‘Perhaps a little more… at ease?’ Lizzie tried, after surveying him in dismay through her interlaced fingers.  ‘You could try -‘

She broke off. What on earth _could_ she try? Even off-duty in the officer’s mess, with a glass of Nantz in his hand, you could never say Simcoe looked at ease. Or relaxed. He just _sat_ there in his splendid isolation, a stiff and unnatural outsider in Setauket affairs. Always the pale spectre at the feast, walled up within his own sense of self-worth.

It looked like a cold, friendless life, seen from the outside.

Lizzie felt something akin to pity stir in her breast. Despite everything ; the debts, the duns and the shrieks of angry lodge-keepers  Lizzie had always had Pa. They might be outsiders, but they were outsiders _together_. What did this man have, besides his cold pride?

The thought jogged a thread of inspiration in Lizzie’s head. That was _it! That_ might save the portrait entirely…

In the heat of the creative impulse she forgot herself.‘If you’ll permit?’ she said briskly, and gently brushed the lieutenant’s jawline with her fingertips, just between his severe black stock and starched linen. ‘If you’ll just turn your head a little downwards, sir…’

She half-expected him to be cool; or slimy- like some dead, unburied thing. It was honestly a shock to Lizzie to find his skin warm to the touch; albeit a little prickly where he had evidently freshly shaved that morning.

Simcoe had moved his head tamely under her hands, true. But as he did Lizzie stopped dead, horribly aware of the liberty she’d taken once her eyes had met his.

The electric-blue eyes _burned_.

For one terrible moment, Lizzie thought: he’ll get up with a clenched fist now. I’m lucky there’s not a broken bottle to hand –

 But he didn’t move. He stayed very still, hands frozen in his lap, and just looked at her, not letting her look away.

Lizzie shivered under that look. It was terrible – more so because she didn’t understand  it. Was he angry? Why didn’t he _say_ anything? She could see a pulse in his neck throbbing a little – stranger yet, she could feel it beating sharply beneath her hand. ..

She shook herself inwardly. Back to business, Lizzie. Simcoe was finally in a tolerable position. ‘Don’t move,’ she said sharply, retreating back to her easel, blindly reaching for her stick of charcoal. ‘That’s it. I think I have it. But just… stay… still.’

Simcoe’s eyes had still not left hers. They stayed fixed on the glimpses of Lizzie that he could see from behind the canvas– the edge of a sleeve, the curve of her arm as she reached out for a brush. A faint wisp of tightly curled dark hair.

 

* * *

 

 

Lizzie wasn’t sure how long the sitting lasted. Once she had started, the paintbrush took on a life of its own. But it lasted long enough that the shadows lengthened and the light began to fade.

‘I think that will have to do for now, Lieutenant,’ Elizabeth said at last, craning her aching neck with a wince.

‘Is that _all_?’ Simcoe’s voice sounded disappointed as he rose to his feet.

‘For today. I can’t paint in the dark. And I would like _some_ supper tonight.’ Lizzie said shortly. They had been there for a couple of hours at the very least. That was surely enough.

She  retreated into ungracious incivility, and was busying herself wiping her brushes on her painting apron. Hoping to avoid looking at the lieutenant as he left.  ‘Next Sunday, Lieutenant. If you s _till_ have the fancy for it.’

Simcoe paused in the doorway, his figure silhouetted against the lamps lit in the tavern parlour across the yard.

‘Yes,’ he said deliberately. ‘ I find I do have a… _fancy_ for it.’ He made her a bow, ducking low to try and catch  Lizzie’s eye under her cap. She resolutely ignored him. ‘Until next week then, Miss Lowndes.’

 Once his footsteps had faded into the distance, Lizzie stood back, and took a tentative look at her handiwork. It wasn’t much – just the pale outline of a pair of hands, folded against the stark colour of a red sash – with the half-tilted shape of a face, looking her way.

It was still indistinct. Shapeless. A stranger.

 

 

 

 


	8. The Forbearance of Daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie completes her matchmaking mission with unforeseen consequences....

_Child of distress, who meet’st the bitter scorn_

_Of fellow-men to happier prospects born,_

_Doomed Art and Nature’s various stores to see_

_Flow in full cups of joy—and not for thee;_

_Who seest the rich, to heaven and fate resigned,_

_Bear thy afflictions with a patient mind;_

                                               Anna Letitia Barbauld, _To The Poor_

As Lizzie stooped to collect her things, her ear caught the sound of movement in the stable.

A rustling noise, in amongst the straw.

 It was probably just a rat scrambling about near the feed boxes, she thought uneasily. There are inevitably rats to be found in stables, attracted there by the horse feed and dry quarters.

But the movement had sounded too large for a rat – and it stopped abruptly when her feet echoed on the flagstones, followed by a small, hastily suppressed sneeze.

 

There was someone _hiding_ in one of the empty loose-boxes; someone who had clearly been watching the sitting.

 

Lizzie’s heart leapt with fear as she peered out apprehensively into the half-gloom of the stables. Rebel dragoons, hostile Indians, gangs of footpads… they all flitted ghost-like, through her head, like a litany of terror.

She tried to calm herself. Setauket was a well-protected place, wasn’t it~? There was a large military garrison over at Oyster Bay, and Hewlett’s regiment posted in town itself; but with things so unsettled, there were any amount of lawless local men roaming Long Island who plundered strangers at will, under the pretext of looking after their own…

Shaking slightly, Lizzie’s hand went towards her _other_ hanging pocket. She had concealed a deadly-sharp little palette knife in there, like a sheathed wasp-sting. Pa used it for scraping off unsatisfactory over-painting. Lizzie had thought of another use for it.

She wouldn’t have _needed_ to borrow a blunt, crude table knife from Anna if things had gone… awry.

She had one of her own.

‘I can _hear_ you!’ she hissed, into the darkness, gripping the knife hard.

There was another sharp rustle amongst the straw – as though whoever it was had suppressed a sudden movement. Silence.

Lizzie backed towards the doorway, wondering if she could scream before musket shot silenced her.

‘Don’t make me call the soldiers! I _will_ if I-’

‘No, please Miss!’

A small dark curly head sprang up like a terrified jack- in-the-box over the wooden partition of the loose box. The lack of light in the stables themselves made it difficult to see, but it was a little boy who came out blinking into the fading rays of sunlight.

He was trembling, and looked almost as scared as Lizzie felt.

‘M’sorry, miss! _Please_ don’t!’ he swallowed, ‘I know Missis Anna told me not to make a sound, but it was getting awful itchy in there, and I stayed quiet long as I could. _Please-‘_

 ‘The little boy was small and dark, with wide amber brown eyes set in a thin face. Perhaps he was the Strong’s groom? Lizzie thought confusedly. He could have been a freedman’s child if they’d still been in York City; there were a few families there in lodgings. But looking at the faded  blue homespun jacket (slightly the worse for wear for its adventures in the loose-box) Lizzie remembered where they were. Setauket was a rural place – it likely had more slaves than freemen.

She hurriedly lowered the knife.

‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I thought you were a footpad. But… who are you?’

‘Cicero, Miss.’ The boy was still eying her anxiously. ‘I’m Missis Anna’s.’ He picked a wisp of straw out of a knitted cap he held bunched in his hands. ‘I’m sorry I made a noise. But the soldier gennelman had gone, and I was only supposed to be there whilst he was-‘

‘Wait… _what_?!’ Lizzie put a hand to her forehead. A faint suspicion had blossomed in her mind. Anna’s unusual calm this morning – there had only been _mild_ disapproval…

Now she knew why.

 ‘Did… did Mrs Strong _ask_ you to hide there, Cicero?’

Cicero nodded, gravely.

‘Missis Anna promised me a whole sixpence if I stayed very quiet and didn’t bother you none.’ He grinned shyly at her, seeing her face clear. ‘I normally works as Mr Selah’s stable-boy when he comes into town, but he wasn’t riding out today, so I wasn’t busy or nothin’. But Missis Anna made me swear and _swear_ not to make a noise…’

So.

 Anna hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone, after all!.Lizzie had wondered , after all Anna’s objections ,why she had suddenly resigned herself to the situation. But she hadn’t, had she? She’d given her a spy, instead. A small, ten year old spy.

Lizzie vaguely felt she ought to be angry at the interference, especially unasked-for. But she couldn’t muster up any real rancour. Deep down, Lizzie was quite thankful that she hadn’t been entirely alone during the whole portrait-sitting ordeal.

‘…If you was in trouble, I was to run for her or Mr Selah.’ Cicero finished, looking up at her. ‘That’s _all,_ Miss. Missis Anna said it was all right…’

His face crumpled up, anxiously. ‘It _is_ , ain’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie said fervently. ‘Yes, it is. You did exactly right. Thank you.’

She peered into the loose-box. ‘And she told you to hide in _there_?’ she wrinkled her nose at the stale smell of old straw and horse manure. ‘It _smells_ …’

‘It’s only horse,’ Cicero said reassuringly, in his piping child’s voice. ‘That’s not _that_ bad. Just wish the straw didn’t tickle so much. Ma will scold me if I got fleas on my jacket…’ He squinted out at the fading daylight. ‘I better get goin’. I’ll miss supper.’

He brushed ruefully at the rough wool, before scampering past Lizzie with a little apologetic duck of the head. ‘Nice meeting you, Miss!’

‘It was nice meeting you too!’ Lizzie called after him, as he hared off down the street.

Meeting Cicero had improved her mood. After all the tension of the sitting, it was a relief to talk to someone _human_.

That was rather the lieutenant’s problem, Lizzie reflected, as she began trudging back across the stable yard to the inn. When small ten-year old servant boys have the social advantage, you really are…

“Long-estranged from polite society?”

Wasn’t that how Simcoe put it?

Perhaps that _wasn’t_ just a flimsy excuse. From everything Lizzie had seen so far, the lieutenant barely managed a reasonable civility to his fellow officers and superiors, let _alone_ his ordinary fellow-men. His ‘martial’ upbringing had succeeded too well.

 

Though… there was one thing that Lizzie could grudgingly praise.  Once she was settled and began to paint in earnest, Simcoe had been exceptionally well-behaved. He hadn’t fidgeted, or fussed. There had been no complaints about the discomfort of his seat, or the hours spent with his head held at a precise angle; the normal complaints of fussy patrons. Had Simcoe been a normal man, with an everyday expression, Lizzie would have counted him as one of the best artistic models she had ever had. He knew the value of absolute immobility.

But then - he would insist on the _stare_.

Lizzie _couldn’t_ paint that from life. She _knew_ she couldn’t. It would look horribly like a thin-lipped cod-fish in scarlet and buff facings. There must be a way of making the man look less painfully… concentrated.

Next week, Lizzie decided inwardly, I shall find him a book to read – or at least to look at.

She could even ask Anna for the loan of the battered chess set that sat in the tavern snuggery. It was normally jealously guarded by the wizened old men who came to escape their wives drink their fill, but they could spare it for an afternoon. If she could just get _some_ flicker of emotion that wasn’t so stiff and exaggerated, the sitting might even be… tolerable.

Although that was perhaps too optimistic a thought.

But Lizzie found herself hopeful.  The warm yellow light from the tavern windows threw a soft, welcoming glow over the deepening gloom of the stable yard. Set against the clear, crisp sky of an autumn sunset, the Strong tavern looked a picture of warmth and light.

She stood back, taking the view in for a little longer.

Setauket was a good place. Perhaps… perhaps, if she managed to hoard their money a little while longer, she might be able to persuade Pa to settle down. He was getting a little old for the wandering life. And even if his painting seemed to be a little slow, his cordial friendships seemed to make Mr Lowndes a happy man. Maybe… maybe if he painted Magistrate Woodhull’s pretty daughter-in-law (if the rumours of bad debts didn’t follow them from New York)… they might actually be able to settle down…

She peered through the distorted glass window. Why, Pa was back already! And already seated comfortably, with the cribbage board close to his hand. That was good. With any luck Ensign Baker was already intent on the game, and…

Wait. Lizzie’s smile faded. That wasn’t Ensign Baker at the gaming table. The figure was all wrong. Baker was more…

Lizzie muttered a curse under her breath, and flung herself through the tavern door.

 

* * *

 

It was Easton. Of course it was. Smug, unpleasant Corporal Easton, with his winnings piled up by his elbow, and a fat, mocking smile on his face .Watching as Pa fumbled through his pockets for more money.

‘My _word_ , corporal – we can only hope your regiment rolls the rebels so thoroughly!’  Mr Lowndes exclaimed genially. ‘The old ‘dealing short’ trick, eh? Although I thing you’ll find this old dog has a few tricks up his sleeve…’ Pa leaned back, to grab at the passing pot-boy’s arm. ‘Boy? Another round for me and the corporal, I think…’

Lizzie edged crabwise through the thick press of customers, her face dark. She caught sight of Ensign Baker, looking uneasily towards the little gambling tableau by the window – and plunged towards him.

‘What are you _doing_ , sir?!’Lizzie hissed, seizing him by the sleeve. ‘Why are you – I invited _you_ to play cribbage with my father! Not that _fat_ mountebank-‘

‘So I was,’ Baker said soberly. ‘Until the corporal rolls in with his bully-boys after drill…’ He nodded over to a nearby  table. A group of burly privates who looked as though they were built out of salt beef and steel sat flanking Easton’s back. ‘He ordered me off.’ The ensign took a disconsolate swig of small ale. ‘Said it was a ‘gentleman’s game’.’

‘He shouldn’t be able to order you about!’ Lizzie said indignantly, glaring over at the cribbage table.

‘He’s only a corporal. You’re an ensign, aren’t you? Can’t you –‘

‘What?’ Baker turned and drained the dregs of his ale in one gulp. ‘Order _him_ off? With Perkins, Everett and Wallace at his back? The regulars don’t like men come up from the ranks, Miss. Any more than the officers like it. I should get a beating. And a lecture from the Captain about bringing the army into disrepute.’

Lizzie saw his shoulders sag dejectedly, and felt a pang of compassion. The regular rank and file resented Baker for his good fortune and better pay - and the officers disliked promotion on merit when the person concerned was only a ‘common sort of fellow’, with no money or connections.

Baker was stuck in between the world of the soldier and the officer, and both sides hated him for it.

I’m sorry,’ she said, softening her tone. ‘I just wish it was anyone but Easton. That’s all.’

 

She glared at the corporal’s bulging back. _That_ was all she needed. Easton wouldn’t budge until he’d turned out Pa’s scanty pockets. It was a lucky thing Pa never had much money in his purse when he went to Whitehall.

But he was _ruining_ all Lizzie’s carefully laid plans for aiding Jenneke’s burgeoning romance...

She paused, weighing up her options as she cast a quick glance around the tavern.

Mr Strong – a little flushed in the heat and noise – was doing a roaring trade at the counter. Despite Major Hewlett’s serious exhortations to his men about keeping the Lord’s Day in comparative  sobriety and dignity, there was an enthusiastic press of soldiers in a large, noisy, laughing and swearing body.

But they hadn’t taken up all the seats. There were still a few odd corners left; the window seat, near the deserted officer’s table was still free. And Lizzie saw a dog-eared pack of cards, left half-abandoned in a pool of spilt ale…

She decided to seize her chance.

‘Would you like to play me, instead?’ She picked up the cards, shuffling them as she quickly sat down on the stool. ‘I’m no great card-player, but…’ she looked over her shoulder at her father. ‘I could use a little amusement. At least until Pa’s money runs out.’

’Er… I’m afraid I don’t know many card games, Miss,’ Baker said anxiously. ‘Not anything,,, you know, elegant. Sergeant Halliwell taught me to play Rat back when I was a private-‘

‘I can play Rat,’ Lizzie said, smiling. ‘My brother taught me, when I was little.’ She pushed the cards over towards Baker. ‘Go on, sir. I think I may trust you to deal.’

 

Near the tavern door, there was an unobtrusive old chair, half-hidden behind one of the old wooden supports that arched around the narrow window seat. Ostensibly, it was the ‘Captain’s chair’; the one Joyce used when holding his little military dissipations. It generally remained empty, out of wary deference to Joyce’s rank.

It had been drawn aside, into a position that made an _excellent_ observation point for anyone who wished to be unseen. And a pair of highly polished boots idly kicking the post indicated that it wasn’t, in fact, unoccupied.

Had the bar been a little less crowded, Lizzie might even have noticed as much.

 

But now it had come to the _actual_ business of matchmaking, it had finally dawned on Lizzie that all this giggling and fluttering about with billet-doux was rather…well, _silly_.

Ensign Baker seemed to be an honest, quiet man; kind, and plain-speaking. Lizzie felt a little… uncomfortable with the schoolgirl flutter of coy deceit she and Jenneke had concocted. He deserved _better_ than that. It would have been better if Jenneke could have simply mustered up a little courage and _shown_ her preference, surely?

But Jenneke couldn’t do that. She was too fearful.

And she had _promised_.

Elizabeth attached great importance to keeping promises. It was probably only because Pa had broken so many over the years – the promises to paint well, to stay sober and not to spend money they didn’t have…But she couldn’t draw back _now_ , however much she wanted to. She couldn’t see Miss DeJong’s disappointment.

 

She just wished she’d had time to come up with a better plan!

Fortunately, Lizzie could play “Rat” in her sleep. The first few hands went smoothly enough. Clubs. Diamonds. Clubs again. Spades.

 _All right,_ Lizzie told herself inwardly. _If clubs are trumps, I needn’t do it. But if it’s diamonds, or-_

‘Hearts to lead!’ Baker said cheerily, raising his eyebrows at his cards. ‘That’s a rare hand you’ve given me, Miss Lowndes.’ He glanced at his empty ale-mug. ‘Oh… we’re nearly dry. Mind if I wet my whistle?’ he winked, amiably. ‘I’ll trust you not to cheat. As you’re a lady.’

‘As I’m a lady,’ Lizzie said, agreeably flattered.

She watched him until she was sure he was elbow deep in the crowd around the bar. Out of sight. It was only then that she _acted._

She quickly pulled out the folded square of paper. Where to hide it?

Amongst his cards was a thought. But - no, she decided. _That_ wouldn’t do. It was liable to misinterpretation, as it would be obvious who had left it. Lizzie didn’t want to have to _explain_ anything, especially not in a crowded tavern. The beauty of the plan for both Jenneke and Lizzie had been its anonymity.

And… oh, _damn,_ the crowd was thinning. Selah was already filling Baker’s tankard with a liberal hand. And Baker didn’t seem to have left his cocked hat in the tavern. No hiding place _there_.

Lizzie’s eye caught a flash of scarlet folded carefully over on the window-seat. His coat. There. That was perfect.

Lizzie edged over towards the coat, her fingers gingerly trying to find a pocket without disarranging it too much, before she lost patience. She pushed the little twist of paper into the fabric, hard, and flew back to her seat, pretending to be very intent on her cards.

To her annoyance and faint alarm, the slip of parchment promptly fell out again, sliding into a narrow crevice between the flimsy seat cushion and the wooden frame. But there was no _time_ to get up and hide it again. Baker was already on his way back!

‘Lizzie!’ Pa called genially across the tavern, weaving his way through the crowds. ‘Daughter mine!’

He approached, peering over at the game. ‘Oh, playing “Rat”, eh? I remember Alexander teaching you to play that game.’ He chuckled. ‘Poor boy. You were a little minx in those days, Liz. Cheated the poor boy every chance you got...’

‘I wonder where I learned that from.’ Lizzie said absently. She flicked a careful glance over Pa, flushed and a little blustering. Easton must have rolled him fast tonight. ‘You should go to bed, Pa. Didn’t you say something about an invitation to Whitehall?’

‘For both of us, my dear! You had better find yourself your prettiest frock. Mr Woodhull wears _velvet_ of an evening.’ Mr Lowndes looked down at his stained worsted suit. ‘And in truth, I myself should probably find myself some new… attire…’

‘You should probably keep away from the gaming table,’ Lizzie said mildly. ‘Then we might be able to afford it.’

 _That_ was another consideration. Lizzie hadn’t had any new clothes for two years now. She made do with cut down, let-out, thrice-mended things in shabby linen and shrunken wool. Jenneke’s promised reward of a silk gown – _silk!_ And only twice turned!– was  a severe temptation.

Pa’s mouth turned downward like a sulky child at the implied reproof.

‘Oh, come, come. Don’t be so churlish, child!’ he said. ‘Miserliness is a bad habit, Lizzie, and I regret to say – ha – I have observed it in you. It’s the province of old spinsters, my dear; unmarriageable portions. Nip it in the bud before you reach five-and twenty.’ He belched, genially. ‘God knows, I can’t afford a daughter on my hands forever. Ah…Mr _Baker_!’

Pa’s eye lit up at the sight of the returning ensign – although his greeting seemed to be mostly directed at the ale jug Baker held in his other hand. ‘Tell me, are you offering libations to the god of chance? Or merely enjoying the fruits of Dionysus on its own merit? No matter which, I shall be _happy_ to oblige you in a toast, sir!’

Lizzie stared blankly at the table, face hot with rising humiliation. _He doesn’t mean it,_ she told herself. _Pa gets petty when he’s been drinking. You know he does. He doesn’t mean it…_

Her sight blurred, all of a sudden. The tavern swam into a kaleidoscope of melting colours.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

‘Miss?’ Baker must have noticed her flushed face. He rose hastily to his feet. ‘Wouldn’t you like to finish the game first?-‘

 ‘The game is over.’ Lizzie’s voice had suddenly gone very high, attempting to disguise the miserably obvious waver. ‘I _beg_ you’ll excuse me, Ensign-’

She elbowed her way past a gaggle of locals, regardless of their stares, and tried to take the stairs at a run.

A hand barred her way.

‘Lizzie?’

Anna had been lurking purposefully near the kitchen door, in shadow. She looked concerned. ‘Are you-‘

‘I’m _fine_!’ Lizzie angrily tried to dash the telltale prickle of tears from her eyes. ‘Nothing the matter at all. I want to go to my _room_ -‘

‘What’s the matter?’ Anna dropped her voice. ‘It wasn’t Simcoe, was it? Because I _did_ speak to Cicero, and-‘

‘Let me _alone_ , Anna!’ Lizzie snapped.

 She couldn’t _bear_ it. The strain of the portrait-sitting, the match-making all hopelessly gone askew – and now Pa, as good as telling her she was a penny-pinching burden on his hands. A _useless_ daughter. An unmarriageable portion, like a bad penny.

Anna’s very _kindness_ was galling beyond belief. ‘Didn’t you _hear_ Pa? I’m only a miserly spinster. Who’d _bother_ to meddle with me?’

She shook Mrs Strong’s hand from her arm, and bolted up the stairs, awash on a wave of her own unhappiness - and let her tears flow unchecked, as soon as the bolt was safely drawn on the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Lizzie didn’t often cry. The last time she had cried had been when Pa and Alexander had their last argument  - and it had been half-forced, hoping perhaps either one of them would soften. Stop being so stubborn. Make friends. But they were too set on their own pride – Pa too outraged, and Alexander too indignant. It had ended in raised voices, and Alex’s fist through a canvas, and a thundering, Drury-Lane renunciation of ‘the undutiful son!’ from Mr Lowndes. Lizzie had realised then that tears didn’t mend matters.

It didn’t seem to matter, this time. This time her tears were hot, angry, and real. Pa had touched a nerve.

All her efforts, all her straining and scraping and pinching together commissions – saving money, hoping their good luck lasted… and Pa simply threw it all to the winds, like so much chaff. He’d cadge more liquor from Baker, reel up to bed – and tomorrow he wouldn’t even remember he’d said anything. Even if he did remember, Mr Bartholomew Lowndes _never_ said sorry.

That was why Lizzie hadn’t seen or heard from her brother in two years. It was why they trailed debts and sour looks from town to town. It was why life was hard. Lizzie reached for her poetry books in the same way drowning men reached for distant horizons .

 

After she had cried her fill, she lay on her damp bolster in the darkness of her room, half-hoping Anna would tap on the door and ask how she did. But no-one came. It was a busy night below.

Hours passed. After a while the men trickled out, in twos and threes, and the lights were put out downstairs. Lizzie could hear her father slurring his way to bed – and mutinously put her head under the covers until he had passed.

Her books often talked about undutiful children, oh _yes_. King Lear and Titus Andronicus and Old Capulet; the miserable Roman senators clever people quoted, they were always decrying their terrible, ungrateful, disgraced children. No-one ever wondered, Lizzie thought bitterly, whether perhaps there was such a thing as an undutiful _father_.

She could even hear the quiet undertones of Anna and her husband, coming up the stairs after making fast the bolts. It must be very late.

‘Did you rake the ashes, Selah? In the parlour?’

‘Had Joshua do it. It’ll do ‘til morning… ‘

The floorboards creaked, loudly.

‘Fie, Selah! What if the boarders are still stumbling about?’

‘That fat artist? You’d as like wake the dead!’

Was that a muffled giggle from Anna? Lizzie thought uncomfortably, and put her head under the covers until the Strongs’ bedroom door had closed, feeling more of an “unmarriageable portion” than ever. Anna, despite her problems, seemed to have _some_ consolation in the married state. Even debt-ridden young Mr Woodhull had a pretty, lady-like wife and an unborn child. Jenneke hoped to have her earnest Ensign Baker –

That thought jogged Lizzie’s memory, sharply – the purpose of the hand of ‘Rat’ coming back all too clear.

She sat bolt upright in bed and cursed.

 

The poetry!

The poetry she had promised to deliver, that had slipped out of Baker’s coat pocket. That had sat out accusingly in the open, for _anyone_ to read. The poetry she had forgotten in the wake of Pa’s stinging remarks.

 

Lizzie’s stomach sank. There had only been one thing she was supposed to do, and she had bungled it _hopelessly_. Jenneke’s opening flirtation had probably been passed from hand to hand by a bunch of drunken sergeants and laughed at and used to light their churchwarden pipes…

But…

It hadn’t fallen out in the open, had it? It had slid down the back of the seat. She hadn’t had time to retrieve it, true – but it was _just_ possible the slip of paper was still there…

Lizzie wrapped herself in her shawl, and cautiously unbolted her door. Everything was silent and dark, although Lizzie’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that she could see her way. She began to inch slowly over the floorboards towards the stairs.

 

It was a torturous progress. For one horrible instant she nearly misplaced her footing, and stood on the telltale creaking board outside the Strong’s room ; but she was fortunate. She caught herself in time.

It probably wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, Lizzie told herself, as she slunk down the stairs like a scalded cat. There was an entirely new set of creaks and murmurs coming from the landlord’s bedroom that suggested the Strongs were both very much preoccupied. But still.

 

The empty tavern taproom was an eerie place in darkness. Chairs took on an entirely new and sinister light. The ruddy glow from the banked ashes on the hearth cast fantastic shadows on the wall.

 A forgotten stool lying across Lizzie’s path became an enemy ambush that stubbed her toes and made her pepper the air with a few choice oaths between clenched teeth. Stupid stools and their damned _stupid_ sharp legs…

Lizzie felt herself begin to panic. Unreasonably; for what harm could it do? she told herself, sternly.  It wasn’t _addressed_ to anyone. Really, Jenneke had been quite sensible about that. But… please let it be here, Lizzie found herself praying. _Please…_

She made it over to the chair where Baker’s jacket had been, and hastily felt around for the paper. It had been between the padding and the wooden framework, surely?

 

For one awful moment, Lizzie thought it wasn’t there at all. But at last, after violently shaking the cushion, something white fell out with a blessed, papery rustle.

Thank the Lord! Lizzie thought, bending to pick it up. She could make another try, at least – and definitely send Baker the poetry….

It was only when she laid hold of it that she realised the paper wasn't hers.


	9. Stern Mars Doth Melt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie reads poetry, and comes to a scarcely believable conclusion...

'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill  
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,  
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' Offence,  
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:  
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,  
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;  
A Fool might once himself alone expose,  
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.

                                   Alexander Pope, _Essay on Criticism_

Lizzie found herself staring almost stupidly at the little twist of paper by the sparse embers of the hearth, as though willing it to be hers.

It wasn’t hers. Not even close. Pa couldn’t afford the expensive, cream-laid artist’s paper that the portraitists of Bond Street used. The stuff loaded into the cart for sketches and groundwork tended to be bulky, thick wads of paper rejected by the York City printers and pamphleteers. There was no mistaking any of Pa’s supplies, _anywhere._

Whereas the paper Lizzie held in her hand now was delicate; scarcely thicker than a butterfly’s wing; It had been folded very neatly into a tiny, stiff little square.

It had worked, Lizzie realised, stunned. Her plan had actually… _worked_?!She hadn’t understood quite how many doubts she’d had about the whole enterprise until she found herself holding the paper. Holding actual, tangible proof of her success seemed almost more unreal than when she’d been chattering about arbours in the DeJong kitchen with Jenneke.

 _I knew it,_ Lizzie thought proudly, as she darted up the stairs, Jenneke’s prize held carefully in one hand.  It was all real! There is intrigue and romance out there in the world…somewhere. As well as genteel ensigns and true love, just like in books. And it had all happened because she, Elizabeth Lowndes, erstwhile “spinster” – had _made_ it happen, like a fairy godmother…

 Miss DeJong would probably have been very surprised to see the silent, whooping victory-dance her ‘sophisticated mentor’ did about the bedroom, until out of breath and slightly pink-cheeked, Lizzie collapsed back into bed with a bounce of the bed-frame.It was a strange sensation. Lizzie felt light-headed with triumph; as though she’d downed a whole mug of Pa’s rum punch in one go.

 

She held the folded paper to the light of the window, to see it better.

 Upon closer scrutiny, Lizzie had renewed respect for Ensign Baker’s efforts – for the paper’s edges _shone_. The note had been written upon the fragile, gilt-edged stuff that Bibles and printed quarto-volumes used – and from the torn edge, it appeared to be a flyleaf.

Can you get into trouble for that? Lizzie wondered idly, lifting the sealed note above her head to watch it glitter in the moonlight. Defacing a Bible? Especially defacing a Bible in order to to write a secret love note. It seemed reckless, almost blasphemous. What if officers inspected Bibles? Did the Army do that, the way they did uniforms and muskets?

Reckless in love, Lizzie thought wistfully, envy tingeing her thoughts. As well as quick to respond – and he had pleasant dark eyes too, just like her imaginary titled _macaroni._ Jenneke didn’t know how lucky she was.

She sighed. She should probably put it away. It wasn’t _her_ note, after all, even if she had managed the whole affair for Miss DeJong. It was Jenneke’s. Jenneke should be the first to read it. It would be unforgivably rude to read it.

But….

She should probably check, shouldn’t she? That it _was_ from Baker. It was only a folded bit of paper, after all; it could be _anything_. It wasn’t even sealed! it could be a forgotten bill, or a bit of waste kindling. There would be nothing worse than handing over something that turned out to be a receipt for tobacco.

I’m not going to _read_ it as such, Lizzie told herself firmly. I won’t read it _all_. I’m just… making sure. As Jenneke’s friend, and as a… a _confidante_ , that’s it! Yes. It’s my _duty_ as a confidante to make sure the note is actually for Jenneke, and not just taproom litter.

The argument wasn’t that convincing, even to Lizzie. But it was enough to quell her conscience. She was too curious. She had never seen a love-note before. It would be interesting to see how gentlemen _really_ managed these things.

The moonlight was scarcely enough to see the room by, certainly not strong enough for reading. Lizzie had to light a taper before she could see anything, and even then, she had to hold it carefully to avoid setting alight to her prize.

The paper crackled as she eased it open almost furtively with one fingernail.

The first thing she noticed by the guttering light, was the handwriting. Lizzie had noticed that men inevitably seemed to take less care with their penmanship, and this was most definitely a man’s scrawl. A little impatient in its curves, and with a certain unruly dash about it that suggested the mind was racing ahead of the pen. In one place there was a ink spot that had been hastily wiped away. But - after Lizzie noticed the masculine hand, she also noticed clear evidence that the author was trying his very best, albeit after scribbling out his message. You could see the marks of an extra flourish here or there, trying to make the loops a little more extravagant. In one place, an ‘F’ had been carefully amended with an exaggerated curlicue, like an engraver’s capital.

That was good, Lizzie thought approvingly. The writer had looked over his work, found it lacking (to his own sense, at least) and tried to improve it.  What on earth was the point of writing love-letters if you weren’t going to _try_? And his handwriting was better than she might have guessed. Baker clearly had a sense of the fitness of things.

The next thing –

Well. It certainly _wasn’_ t a receipt. Shopkeepers didn’t usually frame their transactions in heroic couplets. Or rhyme.

 

_Sweet Ergane’s Muse, can this be so?_

_That tears for unworthy mortals flow?_

_Can Danaé, from cruel Acrisius’ tower_

_Love from within her brazen bower?_

_Stern Mars doth melt, as wax to fire_

_From dext’rous touch of soft desire._

Baker wrote _poetry_.

Lizzie’s breath stopped dead in her throat. She gawped wordlessly at the paper, and then re-read it again, just to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

 Generally, in Lizzie's head, with her imaginary suitor, it was the sort of verse that only appeared _after_ the rose-strewn arbour and a few (admittedly, somewhat risque) exchanges. Baker was rather bold, mentioning 'soft desire' so early in his courtship. It made Lizzie's stomach turn a most peculiar somersault. It was all perfectly decorous until the last two lines, and then it... hinted at things some of Lizzie's flowery poetry rather side-stepped. 

Fingers trembling slightly, she refolded the paper and put it carefully on her washstand. And then picked it up and read it again, one finger incredulously following the lines of the writing.

It would be a lie to say Lizzie slept much that night. She lay awake, staring sightlessly at the blank plaster of the ceiling, and her mind filled with a confused,  queasy sort of delight she found it hard to name, even to herself.

Occasionally she would turn her face towards the folded note lying innocently on the desk, watching it as though it might move.

Well. That was…certainly not what she had expected.

 

* * *

 And neither was Jenneke's reaction. Which was was one of vague bemusement.

‘What does it _mean_?’ Jenneke asked bewilderedly next morning holding the paper before her at arm's length like an unusual insect. ‘I don’t understand. Does he _like_ me?’

Lizzie gawped. ‘Honestly, you can’t _tell_? From _that!_ ’

‘He doesn’t _say_ so. How am I supposed to tell?’ Jenneke frowned at the paper. ‘And who is _Daniel_?’

‘That’s Danaé,’ Lizzie said, gritting her teeth. Miss DeJong’s education didn’t appear to have run much in the way of classics, but Lizzie was explaining as best she could; although not without a touch of impatience.  ‘She’s a beautiful princess in Greek mythology. Her wicked father locks her up in a tower of brass-‘

‘So… he is not saying I am brazen?’

‘No, no, the _tower_ is brazen. It’s poetic _license.’ Smoke and mirrors,_ Lizzie thought. You could hide a lot in poetry. Meaning. Feeling. But she felt sure she’d read this one correctly. ‘Look, he says he _likes_ you. He thinks he’s unworthy, see? He’s melting with love for you. “ _As wax to fire_?”’

She stopped short of expanding further on the next line. Surely even Jenneke could grasp what _‘soft desire_ ’ was hinting at. She couldn’t be _that_ dense, surely?

Even by daylight, and dressed, it still gave Lizzie a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had a sudden, vivid image of Baker in his shirtsleeves, dark eyes burning, desperately scrawling poetry that told of melting, and- and desire...

To think of a handsome swain writing that to you… why, it made her head swim…

‘Miss Elizabeth?’ Jenneke pulled on her sleeve, with as much dogged persistence as Martin DeJong himself. ‘If you please… what is an Erganny?’

‘Erganny?’ Lizzie repeated, vaguely, before sinking back down to reality with a jolt.

‘Erganny,’ Jenneke pointed down at the paper. ‘ “ _Sweet Ergane’s Muse”?’_

Lizzie frowned. That line had perplexed her herself. Her knowledge of ancient Greek was strictly limited to the rag-tag remains of Mr Lowndes’ school days,  and Pa had never heard of Ergane before.  She had artfully quizzed him about it over breakfast.

It was _probably_ a city, she’d decided, dreamily. Mythology was full of sacred cities and groves. Ergane was probably next door to Athens.

But Miss DeJong didn’t seem to be quite as taken with poetry. On the contrary she made a moue of distaste and gingerly prodded the slip of paper with on forefinger.

‘I’m not… sure I like it so much,’ she said, slowly, frowning down at the paper before pushing it away. ‘All those funny names and people!  This is too much showing-off, I think. It is, how do you say... _verwaand?’_ she cast about for the right word. ‘Puffed-up. Conceited.  I didn’t _want_ that. I just wanted Ensign Baker to tell me he _liked_ me-’

 Lizzie gave up. She could have cuffed the back of Jenneke’s empty little head. Her thoughts had flown to many things on reading the poem, but she had certainly not seen _conceit_ there. Lizzie would have given _worlds_ to have received anything like it herself, and Miss DeJong was all but sniffing at it.

‘You don’t… like it?’ she said, stunned. ‘But… with respect-’ she felt half-desperate. ‘Jenneke, he just wrote exquisite verse that likened you to a fabled _princess_ -‘

 ‘With a cruel father!’ Jenneke retorted. She scowled, and gave the page another prod. ‘That is not true. And unkind. Vader is _never_ cruel. I couldn’t like _anyone_ who wrote such a thing!’

Lizzie paused, tactfully. Mynheer Martin DeJong was many things; cut-throat businessman, neighbourhood g **o** ssip and not-so-surreptitious drinker, to name a few. But Jenneke was right. He wasn’t a ‘cruel Acrisius’, by any stretch of the imagination. Towards his many children and his pretty new wife, he showed a clucking, proprietorial fondness. He might not be especially warm or obliging towards Lizzie, to be sure – but that was doubtless only in case she turned out to be a housebreaker intent on stealing the family’s silver spoons instead of an artist.

More poetic license on Baker’s part, Lizzie reasoned, a little uneasily. What could be more likely? Gentlemen tended to like damsels in distress they could adore from afar.

But… she had faint misgivings.

 _What if it isn’t for Jenneke?_ A small, treacherous voice whispered inside her head. _Baker was there, remember? Last night. He heard Pa. He saw you get up and run away. Remember his look, remember his voice! And he must have realised it was you who left that verse near his jacket._

 _No._ Lizzie tried to tell herself. _Stop it._

_What if the poetry isn’t **meant** for Jenneke? What if Ensign Baker wrote it for **you**?_

At that, Lizzie stamped on the thought, hard, trying to push it away.  Ashamed of the warm feelings it awoke in her.Baker was pleasant, well-favoured and kindly, and when you added the poetry to that, the ensign had suddenly acquired a romantic glow that seemed strikingly attractive. But...

 

Miss DeJong kept darting furtive, anxious little glances towards Lizzie, although Lizzie had scarcely noticed it in the midst of her unease.

‘I hope I have not wasted your time?’ Jenneke said, timidly. ‘I am sorry. But I do not think that _Mynheer_ Baker and I would suit…’

Lizzie avoided meeting her gaze, ducking her head so the frill of her cap hid her expression. She felt treacherous, to be so glad that Jenneke’s regard had dwindled and withered in the face of ‘funny names and places.’

‘That’s… alright,’ she said; carefully, in case her muted joy showed in her face. ‘I’m just sorry it wasn’t what you wanted, after all.’

Jenneke shrugged, looking down at the poem. ‘It wasn’t your fault! At least I _know_ he’s not a good prospect, with your help. And I keep my reputation!’ She added, brightening. ‘Vader would have had fifty fits if he’d found out. He wouldn’t have liked having an _Engelsman_ as a son-in-law. _Het Engels_ in York City have been trying to cheat him on corn prices.’ She stood up, briskly shaking out her skirts. ‘Come with me, _Missen_ Lowndes! I have something for you…’

 

* * *

 

 

Anyone more worldly – or at least better acquainted with a silk mercer’s shop – would probably have sneered at Jenneke’s gift. It _was_ silk; but it was the cheap, third-rate flawed stuff that pedlars kept in the packs for over-eager provincials. The rich mulberry dye didn’t hide the faint scorch marks at the hem where Jenneke had stayed too long by the fire.

But it rustled stiffly as Jenneke coaxingly held it up. The sounds it made sounded like the brush of angel’s wings to Lizzie’s ears.

She had _never_ had a silk before.

‘Jenneke! You’re sure you don’t _want_ this?!’

She reached out, enchanted.

‘That!’ Miss DeJong snorted, with the contempt of a girl with a well-stocked wardrobe. ‘I have better. And it is old. I did offer it to Marta, but apparently _Clara_ had already given her something. _She_ didn’t want it.’

Lizzie didn’t have the pride to be offended that her payment was in the form of a gown even the DeJong’s maid-of-all-work had scorned. The word _silk_ kept echoing pleasantly in her ears. Although the guilty knot in her stomach hardened even further. 

‘But you don’t have to. I didn’t help you, with Ensign Baker….’

‘It’s yours, _Missen_ ,’ Jenneke said firmly. ‘DeJongs pay what’s owing. Besides,’ she added flippantly, ‘I don’t have space for it in my linen press. Vader promised me a proper _damask_ for my name-day. Fancy, real _damask_! I am going to keep it in tissue paper and rose petals when it comes.’

She drummed her slippered heels against the legs of her chair in glee.

‘Well… if you’re _sure_ ,’ Lizzie said, rising to tuck the bundled-up dress under her arm. She could still scarcely believe her luck. Although some of the tumult in her head was less to do with the silk and more to do with-

‘Ouf!’ Jenneke had returned to the kitchen table. She was lifting up scattered plates and bowls, frowning. ‘Wait. Missen Lowndes. Did you see where the-‘

‘Oh, the poetry?’ Lizzie had buried her face in her bundle as though inhaling the smell of the fabric - although a careful observer would have seen her face had suddenly gone very pink. She was watching Miss DeJong warily over the pile of silk.  'I put it in the fire, Jenneke. It wouldn’t do for something like that to lie around. For your _reputation_ , you know?’ she added, as a cloud passed over Miss DeJong’s face. ‘A lady can’t be too careful. If your father or _Clara_ were to see it…’

Jenneke winced at the idea. ‘ _Ja_. That was a good idea.' She glanced at the fire.

'Still.' she added, a little plaintively. 'I was hoping to keep it. I was going to tease Cousin Henrik with it.’ She giggled. ‘It would make him so cross! He needs to be more genteel if he’s going to be a merchant some day…’

‘I'm sure you can tell him about it,’ Lizzie said indistinctly, nose still buried appreciatively in the silk. She had adopted a carefully blank expression. 'Well. Give you good day, Miss DeJong. I’m off to help my father…’

 

She beat a hasty retreat down the road to the edge of the woodland, a business-like girl about an errand. Only once she was sure Jenneke had shut the front door and gone about her business did she reach into her pocket.

Something white crackled between her fingers.

 _Thief._ Lizzie thought to herself accusingly. _Liar. Vixen._ What had possessed her to do that? She’d just _lied_ to Jenneke. And stolen from her. She had _stolen_ her poetry. Another girl's billet-doux. There was nothing meaner. A thousand fictional confidantes would have thrown up their hands in horror.

But she hadn’t… exactly lied to Jenneke. It was true, it wouldn’t do for love-sonnets to just lie around, as if _nobody_ wanted them. She’d just... _tidied up_ , really.It might be a slight equivocation, but it wasn't really a malicious lie.

 _And if Jenneke really cared about her precious reputation,_ another, baser part of her thought,  _she shouldn’t want to make her farm-boy cousin jealous by flaunting poetry she didn’t even care for, should she?_

That was _wrong_ of her, Lizzie thought furiously, her literary indignation coming back to her in a flash. Poor Ensign Baker, writing verse only to have it kicked aside! _If_ he had intended it for Miss Dejong, it was certainly a case of pearls before swine. She didn’t seem able to appreciate the effort and care that had gone into it. And if she couldn’t appreciate it – well, then she certainly didn’t _deserve_ it. That was only right, wasn’t it?

  _No, it isn’t,_ Lizzie thought wretchedly to herself. _It’s all wrong_. But she just couldn’t have left it there. She **couldn’t**. Especially not after…

She stroked the paper gently with one finger, as though it were a living, breathing thing. That sudden doubt about the intended recipient had unnerved her nearly as much as the subtle hints in the poem.

Why did she even question it? It _was_ meant for Jenneke, Lizzie told herself angrily. Wishful thinking, to imagine Baker writing to _her_!

But the thought was there. She couldn’t pretend she was absolutely _sure_ …

Rather like the verse itself.  I _wish_ I knew what Ergane meant! Really, it might be anything. A nymph. A temple. A beast, or…

She quickened her step towards Whitehall.

Pa said Mr Woodhull was learned. Major Hewlett certainly was, if ‘Penthesilea’ and ‘Bucephalus’ were anything to go by. Maybe, if she was careful about introducing the topic …

Yes, Lizzie thought determinedly. I’ll only keep it until I know what “Ergane” means, and then I’ll burn it. Because it’s almost certainly not for me. Even to _suppose_ …

She broke into a trot, her feet almost slipping over the stones in her haste.

 

 

* * *

 

Lizzie very nearly didn’t make it past the liveried house-servant, who eyed her flushed face and down-at-heel linens with a dubious eye.

‘Magistrate Woodhull doesn’t buy anything on the doorstep,’ he said flatly.

Elizabeth’s face flushed. ‘Good. I’m not selling anything,’ she said snappishly.Her anger was good - it soothed the unruly mess of fear and hope beating in her breast. ‘I’m _here_ to see my father. The painter? Commissioned by _Major Hewlett_?’ she added pointedly. ‘He had an appointment today. I _know_ he’s here…’

The man subsided reluctantly, moving sideways to allow her through.  To be fair, it was the first time Lizzie had used the front door, rather than the servant’s entrance, but she had scarcely thought about which door she should use.

The fact was, the mysterious ‘Ergane’ had assumed a power and meaning to Lizzie, simply by its very mystery.  She felt that once she understood, it would answer _everything_ – not simply an obscure Greek reference; poetry or art. Ensigns or daydreams. Hope or disillusion…

 And who Baker liked best. Jenneke, or …Lizzie.

 ‘ “Ergane?” ’ Mr Woodhull senior, esteemed magistrate and portly gentleman, rolled the word around his mouth like an unfamiliar sweet. A touch of _‘smoke and mirrors’_ from Lizzie had done the trick. Richard Woodhull enjoyed being basted in the butter of flattery, and being referred to as a learned fellow by a timid, interested yet (alas!) ignorant artist’s daughter had opened up the man nicely, like a fat oyster. ‘Ah! Well, in fact, young lady, you have me there. I’m more of a Cicero man myself. Latin’s the modern man’s language of reason. A modern judicial court doesn’t have much call for invocations or pagan deities, although back in ‘fifty-four…’

This let loose a whole flood of college reminiscences and lawyer’s lore.

‘I see.’ Lizzie said, disappointed. ‘So… you can’t enlighten me? I did ask Pa, but he didn’t seem to know...’

Mr Woodhull’s mouth tightened, suddenly – as though he was biting back something. He coughed, and suddenly became much more stately and condescending.

‘Ah yes,’ he said tightly. ‘The “celebrated” Mr Lowndes.’ His words clanged heavily with irony. ‘Well, if you’ll follow me, perhaps the Major can enlighten you…’

 Lizzie’s heart sank as she followed in his wake. She knew what _that_ meant. Another problem.

Pa could maintain his ‘affable gentleman’ act for a while. He was even rather good at sustaining it, at least whilst his patrons were still cordial towards their pet artist. But only up to a point. After a while, he’d let slip some little indiscreet story- about a bad debt, or an angry landlord. And then the noble patrons would raise their eyebrows, and a little of Pa’s showman glitter would rub off, showing him in anything but a noble light. From Mr Woodhull’s somewhat frosty tone, he had already seen enough.

The drinking didn’t help, Lizzie thought worriedly. He let too much slip to maintain his ‘honourable craftsman’ façade. But it was so _hard_ to keep him from it. Even if she did, all she got was a snappish, worrisome Pa – a fretful Pa – which was a poor return for all the effort it took. Even if handsome ensigns did notice enough to call him a ‘cruel Acrisius’ in exquisite verse…

Lizzie’s heart did that peculiar somersault down into her stomach again...

‘Ah, Edmund!’ Mr Woodhull adopted the jolly ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ note he saved for fellow gentlemen.  ‘How comes the portrait?’

 Major Hewlett was perched at Bucephalus’ bridle in the loose-box, one hand absently stroking his mane. Apparently today was important enough to warrant his personal attendance, although this was not without its difficulties. Bucephalus was enjoying his master’s presence by behaving atrociously.  He kept plucking inquisitively at one coat-pocket, clearly scenting sugar-lumps or slices of apple. One side of Hewlett’s wide-lipped mouth was trying not to twitch out of the “noble expression” he had donned with his pomade and silver braid into an indulgent smile.  

‘Not – ha! Without its difficulties, I assure you, Richard – no, _down!_ Bucephalus, there’s a good boy' He glanced inquisitively at the cambric cap bobbing behind the magistrate's shoulder until he caught sight of her face.

'Ah, Miss Lowndes. Are you here to assist?’

Lizzie cast a quick glance at her father’s pink, sweating face and tight-lipped look of concentration, and caught his eye - which forbade her to say a word more. She shook her head.

'My father works best alone, sir.'

‘Best not to disturb the master at work, eh? ’ the major said, with a uncomfortable attempt at genial small talk. There was a faint trickle of sweat leaking down from his neatly powdered wig, but Hewlett appeared to be too in awe of his painter to even consider attending to his own comfort. He looked half-stifled in his closely tied stock and stiff collar.

‘Miss Lowndes comes in the light of diligent enquiry, Major,’ Mr Woodhull pronounced, with a certain sardonic gravity. ‘Seeking out the fount of knowledge, as it were. Perhaps you can enlighten her? She stumbled across the word ‘Ergane’, and would like to seek out its source…Greek, I believe you said?’

‘Ah! Greek! One moment…’An eager look crossed Major Hewlett’s face. He trotted out of the straw, dusting chaff from his boots. He blinked several times at Mr Woodhull before pursing his lips and tutting slightly as though making a mental inventory. ‘Now let me see… hmm, Homer? No, I think not. Perhaps… hum. Hah. Yes…’

Lizzie exchanged a puzzled glance with Mr Woodhull.

‘The _major_ ,’ Magistrate Woodhull murmured, sotto voce, ‘has his own mental system. A … way of remembering, if you like. Very complicated. _Very_ educated.’ He raised his voice, politely. ‘Would it be Herodotus, Major?’

Hewlett held up an admonishing finger. ‘Richard! No interruptions, if you please!’ He screwed up his face, and began murmuring under his breath again.

The sheepish look on Magistrate Richard Woodhull’s face was a sight to behold. It was something to be saved and taken out on gloomy days, Lizzie decided. He might be educated by Setauket standards, but clearly the Major jousted in a higher sphere.

‘Can't say I understand it,’ Mr Woodhall murmured, by way of muted protest. ‘But... that’s Oxford men for you.’

The Major hadn't heard a word of his host's faintly disgruntled reply. He appeared to be running his fingers over the pages of an invisible book in mid-air, keeping up the perpetual mutter.

‘Aha!I have it.'’ Hewlett opened his eyes again, to beam at his disconcerted audience. ‘Rather an oblique reference, I must say.'  He blinked interestedly at Lizzie. 'Wherever did you come across it, Miss Lowndes? Surely not a _novel_? Modern novels are rather obvious in their classical metaphors, for my taste.'

‘It wasn't a novel,’ Lizzie said cautiously. Good Lord, what if he asked which book it was?  ‘It was a… a poem.’

‘You don’t say?’ Hewlett said. His nose wrinkled in distaste, almost in the same way Jenneke's had - although he endeavoured to find something to say. 'Poetry. Well.'He coughed, awkwardly. 'It was a reference from _Pausanius_. Not Herodotus. Although I forgive the mistake, Richard. Both are Greek historians, after their fashion.’

Lizzie didn’t dare look towards Mr Woodhull. She had a distinct feeling he neither knew nor cared a fig for any Greek historian.

‘And… what does it mean? Ergane?’ she ventured, timidly.

‘Ergane! Now, therein lies a tale!’ The Major positively rubbed his hands in sheer intellectual glee. It occurred to Lizzie that he had entirely forgotten his audience was a common artist’s daughter and a provincial magistrate. Somewhere in his head, Major Hewlett was giving a lecture on comparative mythology for the Royal Household in Whitehall.  ‘It’s a rather obscure reference to the Goddess Athena. You know, one of the rather ferocious maiden goddesses? Goddess of Wisdom, patroness of Odysseus… the list goes on. But _Athena_ _Erganê_! Well! It’s one of her lesser known titles, and _very_ rarely used.  She’s normally a rather warlike figure, you see…’

 _Yes? And?_   Lizzie was all but mentally stamping her foot with impatience.

‘ “Athena of the Arts,”’ Major Hewlett said at last, smiling. ‘Very apropos, all things considered. It’s her peculiar title as patroness of art and skilled craftsmen. Your reading was on point with your profession, Miss Lowndes. ’

Lizzie's breath caught in her throat. It was as though someone had tugged too hard on her staylaces, for all that came out instead of a polite 'thank-you' was a sort of breathless gulp.

'R-Really?' she said, attempting to feign disinterest. It must have been a poor attempt, for Mr Woodhull Senior was eyeing her curiously. Blessedly, the Major seemed to think she was transfixed with simple wonder at Pausanius and Greek mythology. 'How... interesting...'

She fanned her face, pretending to feel hot. 'I... think I need some fresh air. I'll return, if Pa doesn't need me...'

'I need my subject back,' Pa said irritably. 'The horse has got a damned -' He caught the scandalised glance of Major Hewlett. 

'Sir!' Hewlett said sharply. 'Cursing in the presence of your daughter is _hardly_ appropriate- _'  
_

Too late, Pa realised his mistake. 'Aha. Pardon me, gentlemen. Heat of the moment. The artistic nature...'

Lizzie tactfully slipped out  before Pa could entangle himself further - although a faint singing in her ears meant she barely heard a word.

She got back to Setauket somehow, although she wasn't entirely sure she didn't float back, on a haze of stunned contentment. She couldn't really feel her feet touching the ground at all.

_Athena of the Arts...._


	10. A Tavern Interior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie makes an effort, in both love and war...

LYDIA LANGUISH: _She really carries on a kind of correspondence with him, under a feigned name though,_

_till she chooses to be known to him:—but it is a Delia or a Celia, I assure you._

                                                                                Richard Sheridan,   _The Rivals_

 

Lizzie was not a girl to let anything lie. First,  she’d need a sheet of paper. Not Pa’s scrappy stuff, good only for preliminary drawings, but a fine sheet of stiff cream paper that Lizzie cut out of her journal, heart singing, with a sharp pair of sewing scissors

Ink. She’d need ink. And her pencils. And maybe… a touch of watercolour? She might as well demonstrate the sort of effort she could put into her work. _Sweet Ergane’s Muse,_ she thought, feverishly.  _Oh Lord above…_

Oh, to think of a clever response! It would have to be something _good_ ; if it had taken Major Hewlett time to place the reference, anything Lizzie came up with from her scanty stock of knowledge was sure to be less than adequate. She couldn’t compete with _that_. It had seemed an exciting challenge when writing for Jenneke; something temptingly close to home – although distant enough that she could simply step back and admire it. Like characters in a book. 

But having to write verse for _herself_ to a poetic admirer…

It would need to be something encouraging, she decided. But also - perhaps just a little admonitory. She’d barely met Baker, after all. Writing about “ _the dext’rous touch of soft desire_ ” was _more_ than a little forward; even if it _was_ highly complimentary.

Lizzie stared blankly at her quill. Then, after a few false starts over the course of three tedious terrible days, something moved in her head, and she began to write in earnest.

 

_ To Mars, upon his Declaration: _

__

_Impulsive Mars, know Passion’s Fire,_

_Doth quickly turn to lust and ire._

_Athena loves constant, tender truth_

_Doth this reside in ardent youth?_

Her pen sputtered. She stopped, wondering if she should add a second verse. That would probably do. It was encouraging, but with enough gentle chastisement to discourage further impropriety.

She hastily signed it before she could change her mind.

_Your Athena Ergane._

 

But the week had already flown by whilst she agonized over her response. Lizzie had barely registered that another Sunday’s sitting loomed ominously on the horizon until she finally took courage and headed down to the inn parlour, poetry tucked in her sleeve. Cicero weaved his way nonchalantly towards her under pretence of filling her cup.

“Missis Anna says you got another sittin’ tomorrow,’ he said, in a stage-whisper. ‘You want me, I’ll be in the loose-box again, Miss.’

Oh! Yes.’ Lizzie said, disappointedly. ‘Sorry, Cicero. I’d forgotten…’ Drat. She had hoped to keep a keen eye on the corner seat, to see if she could discreetly catch Baker taking her poetry. The prospect of an afternoon spent under the disconcerting scrutiny of Lieutenant Simcoe instead was a dreary substitute. ‘Will you be alright stowed away in the loose-box, Cicero? I know it’s long hours for you, and with nothing to do-‘

‘That’s alright, Miss.’ Cicero flashed his quicksilver smile. ‘I naps, Miss. But not so you’d notice. I always keep an ear open. No-one ever caught me sleepin’ on the job yet-‘

‘Here, ale!’ Selah’s irritated voice called from the back of the room. ‘You deaf, boy? Ale!’

Cicero darted away, the oversized potboy’s apron knocking against his spindly knees as he weaved through the morning customers.

It presented quite a contrast, the difference between the way the Strongs treated him. Selah seemed to forget he was a child, treating him as a small but mildly backward servant, peppering him with impatient cuffs to the back of the head. Cicero had a habit of ducking hastily when Selah shouted his name, as though expecting something to be thrown at him.

Whereas Anna … Anna saw him as a child first, and it showed in her kindnesses to him. As a result, Cicero was as fiercely loyal to Anna as any knight’s squire. Selah might be his master, true. But Anna was his friend. And it meant he was now Lizzie’s ally against…

Oh dear Lord, the _lieutenant_ , Lizzie thought gloomily. She could have done without _that._

She had better fetch a book with her paints and easel tomorrow. Any book would do, even if it was the dullest part of _Fordyce’s Sermons_ imaginable; provided it combated the unwavering stare.  He was so… concentrated. Lizzie wasn’t entirely sure whether the portrait business was simply an excuse to sit and watch her – which was hardly reassuring.

Perhaps it had better be a book he might take an interest in. But it would be rather hard to choose a book that would suit a character like Simcoe.

 _Machiavelli perhaps_ , Lizzie thought sourly. _That_ _might answer_.

Although she had little to complain of over the past week. Lieutenant Simcoe seemed oddly… _preoccupied_ of late. He no longer lounged idly about the officer’s corner in the evenings with Joyce. Instead he sat morosely at a corner seat by the fire, wooden writing desk upon his knee. His fellow officers looked upon it as a sort of social reprieve, if you could call it that. There was much more comedic singing of songs and little burlesque routines; but even at their rowdiest they didn’t venture to disturb  him. Word about Lieutenant McCarthy had clearly got about.

As ill luck would have it, alas, Simcoe kept his lonely scribbling vigil close to the Captain’s chair; the very corner Lizzie needed to be unobserved, which vexed her no end. A gaunt and terrifying guard-dog like that meant no chance encounters with Baker.  No tender glances! No significant looks, or a chance for… for private conversation, should it happen. It was all _most_ vexing.

‘And we all know what that damned scribbling means,’ Captain Joyce confided darkly over the taps behind Lizzie. ‘Someone’s bloody famous godfather’s pulling strings again.’ He took a sulky swig of ale. ‘He sends letters off to “dear Admiral Graves” on the packet from Long Island every week, begging for promotion.’

‘Promotion?’

‘Or transfer. Our dear lieutenant doesn’t like being stationed in Setauket, oh dear _no_. This damp little place! The agues, my dear! For a man who’s served in the West Indies!’ Joyce gave a grotesque simper, parodying Simcoe’s prim manner.

‘He’s served in the West Indies?’ Lizzie asked, interested. She turned to cast a glance at Simcoe’s rigid back bent over his writing desk. ‘But… he’s so _pale_! Surely…’

‘Aye! Any other man would show some mark of the tropics in his countenance, y’know. They say it takes a toll on a man. The sun and the sweats, and the stench – and the pox too, if you’re unlucky. Air’s rife with swamp agues in that part of the world. But look at him! The pale-faced creeper looks the same as ever. Like a lizard.’ Joyce knocked back his glass with a genteelly suppressed belch. ‘San Domingo, I think it was. Or was it Guyana? Changes every time the fellow tells it in mess.’ He snorted. ‘He’s a cold little conceited popinjay, is Simcoe. Maybe _dear_ “Admiral Graves” will see fit to move him at last, spare us all the trouble of his company…’ He reeled back to his corner, three sheets to the wind, one arm thrown companiably about Robeson’s neck.

Now there was something Lizzie would never have guessed.It threw an entirely new and unexpected light on the lieutenant’s character, a posting in such far flung places as the West Indies. 

An impulse of unaccountable curiosity drew her to direct her steps towards Simcoe in his fireside corner. He was not quite a stranger any more, given their slight acquaintance; although no _less_ strange, for all that.

Nothing could ever render the lieutenant anything less than odd. At best. But he did seem more… approachable. Perhaps it was merely the schoolboy attitude of painful concentration, but he looked far less intimidating a figure with ink-splashed fingers and downcast eyes.

A book _would_ solve the problem of the painting, after all, Lizzie decided, with an artist’s eye. Looking downwards softened the unrestrained stare a little.

She sat down noiselessly a few paces from his chair, taking a moment’s mischievous enjoyment in watching the watcher, so to speak. Simcoe was writing very fast, head bent over his papers.

There would be a certain satisfaction in taking the lieutenant unawares on his own account. Let’s see how _he_ likes being ambushed, she thought, recklessly.

‘I didn’t know you were much of a draughtsman, lieutenant! Do you make any sketches on your own account?’

She had spoken loudly, hoping to make him jump.

Simcoe’s shoulders sprang back a little, perhaps; but Lizzie was sadly disappointed in her hopes of retribution. He turned towards her as politely as if they were seated at dinner and she had asked him to pass some plum preserve.

‘I have not that happy ability, ma’am. And even if I had, I fear I would not have much cause to exercise it in the army.’ He decorously moved his chair back from the table, inviting her inspection. ‘Merely a few words to my connections in New York…’

Captain Joyce had been right. He _had_ been writing to the much-vaunted godfather. There was an envelope addressed to _Admiral Graves R.N,_ waiting to be sealed, sitting propped up neatly by the ink bottle.

The lieutenant looked absurdly pleased with himself for being able to demonstrate as much. 

‘Oh, the admiral? Yes, Captain Joyce _happened_ to mention him.’ Lizzie said coolly, with a touch of irony that quite eluded Simcoe. His unnerving attempt at a smile was once again stretched unnaturally across his countenance, a faint note of hectic colour mounting to his cheeks.

And then Lizzie realised, with a prickle of slight irritation, _why_.

After courteously moving his chair to allow her to glimpse his ‘illustrious’ correspondence, Simcoe had contrived to box her into his fireside corner by carefully inching his chair forwards. Short of flying up the chimney, all escape route was cut off.

She could either take the only other seat by his table, or have to brush past the man, all but sitting upon his lap in the process – something Lizzie didn’t particularly want to contemplate.

She decided a brash frontal attack would be the best way forward.

‘The Captain also said you wanted more active service in the field,’ she said baldly, folding herself neatly into the opposite chair. ‘And that’s why you write to New York so often.’

‘Joyce?’ A look of derision spread across Simcoe’s face. ‘What does _Joyce_ know? But then, he may be content to rusticate in dank barracks at the back of beyond. _I_ am not.’ He dropped his pen on the page, spilling a snail-trail of ink. ‘To be frank, there is much that needs improvement here in Setauket. We grow too…complacent _._ ’ He grimaced, as if the word were distasteful.

‘Is that so very bad?’

‘For a standing army in time of war, there is nothing worse.’ Simcoe was evidently warming to his theme. He leant forward, all earnestness. ‘We are not held in readiness. Any competent commander would have made some serious effort at making the place defensible, not-’he gestured disgustedly towards the meeting-house on its lonely hill. ‘That child’s dirt-pile.’

‘Oh, the dirt-pile I’m not permitted to sketch?’ Lizzie said tartly. She pushed the table to one side, making a small gap to whisk herself through – although once she was free she leant squarely on the table, looking him in the eye. ‘ _That_ child’s dirt pile?’

Simcoe was irritatingly unruffled by her sharp riposte. On the contrary; he seemed to appreciate the open challenge.

‘Who said anything about _permitting_?’

‘Well -’

‘I was merely attempting to preserve the honour of the regiment, Miss Lowndes,’ he said, opening his eyes comically wide. ‘If our defences must be so _very_ lacklustre… well, we may as well keep it to ourselves. I should be ashamed on behalf of the Army to offer Setauket as an example to anyone.’

The lieutenant had a sly unexpected vein of acid wit. It caught Lizzie in a smile, almost against her will.

‘So, if I am to sketch Setauket at all, I must make sure to make it look _very_ grand?’ she said impulsively. ‘A well-defended rocky plateau, perhaps, or a hill-fort. I can include stone walls and a moat if you really insist…’

‘That,’ Simcoe said gravely, ‘would be most suitable. Although I think you mock my enthusiasm, madam?’

‘Not at all, Lieutenant! I _thoroughly_ understand it. And I think I might have approved it, only…’

‘Only?’

He was looking at her intently. Simcoe looked a little piqued by her manner; unsure whether she was laughing at him or with him. But on the other hand, the fact that Lieutenant Simcoe had a sense of humour- and was ready to indulge it- rather reassured Lizzie. _She_ didn’t feel in danger of broken bottles.

She even felt she might dare to speak plain, with a touch of playful reproof.

It was no use beating about the bush as you would with any ordinary human being, allowing them to read the unspoken words; this was _Simcoe_. She pulled her mutilated sketchbook from her pocket (binding sadly dangling, strings flying loose) and pushed it on to the desk.

 ‘Your manner of enforcing it was somewhat abrupt. And _alarming_ , for a stranger to Setauket.’ She pulled back the cover. ‘See? Half the leaves are loose, sir! If you must reprove my artistry, all well and good – but at least allow me to take the page out for you myself, in future. There is scarcely a need for such violence.’

Lizzie had begun in light-hearted earnest. But Simcoe’s mouth turned down at the corners. He hid it well; that smooth urbanity of manner covered much. But Lizzie was learning to read him, a little – and she caught a sudden glimpse of dismay.

‘I perceive I have injured you again,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers had begun beating out one of his nervous drumming fits on the writing desk. ‘That would appear to be my misfortune where you are concerned, Miss Lowndes. I advance, and you ...retreat.’ He was looking fixedly at Lizzie’s hand on her notebook, almost hungrily. ‘Out of sight and reach.’

Lizzie certainly _wished_ she could retreat. Apparently even everyday small-talk was beyond Simcoe’s grasp – he twisted the current of the conversation into some unaccountable vein of his own.

‘Oh, I only spoke in jest,’ she said carelessly, trying to steer their exchange into more intelligible waters. ‘Really, you are not in such sad disgrace as you think, Lieutenant. I believe _admitting_ a fault goes a long way towards redemption...’

She picked up her sketchbook, hoping to make good her escape.

But she had made her intention too plain. The Lieutenant’s long, lean-fingered hands darted out like pale spiders, eagerly trapping Lizzie’s own. It might have been a touching gesture of courtesy in another man; but with Simcoe it became an impromptu ambush.

‘If I have any faults that _do_ displease you, madam,’ he said in a low undertone, ‘it wants only _your_ correction.’ He had half-risen from his seat to meet her eye, face flushing. ‘And if you-‘

There was a raucous shout from a dozen hoarse voices in the corner that drowned out his voice.

 ‘Poxy swine!’

‘Foul! He coughed up half!’

‘Cough? How about _you_ cough up what yer owe me, yer bastard! ’

‘Psshaw! Call that a dram? Bet you a sixpence he can’t take more!’

A conclave of tipsy soldiers had gathered by a dim corner table, crowded around some drinking game. It wasn’t like the officer’s gatherings. It was loud, coarse, and defiantly crass, and the air simmered with barely suppressed hostility; a sort of jostling eagerness, like dogs fighting over a bone. It completely destroyed any illusion of peace. Even the locals were shuffling closer to the door.

And then, to Lizzie’s horror, she saw the flash of an all-too-familiar grey worsted sleeve amongst the scarlet .

It was Pa, sat opposite a puce-coloured Corporal Easton in the midst of the jeering onlookers. Neither man looked at their best. Easton’s coffee-coloured wig was askew, his features almost swollen with the heat of the game and the liquor. But Pa –

Pa looked _barely_ conscious. Drink-sodden. He was sagging in his chair, fingers fumbling for the glass of neat brandy. There was no sign of Anna – or, indeed, any ladies. The night had soured for the worse. That meant there was no chance of a rescue on her part; at this point, it would only mean mischief for herself as well as Pa. Selah Strong was glowering indecisively by the bar, one hand reaching for a heavy blackthorn stick…

Lizzie tensed, glaring with impotent frustration and resentment in Easton’s direction.

‘I hate Easton!’ she said under her breath, muttering it like a curse. ‘I _hate_ him!’

 An ugly look had crossed Simcoe’s face at the interruption from the unruly crowd of soldiers.  But his face brightened when he overheard her muttered exclamation. It was the expression of a schoolboy who has found the answer to a particularly perplexing Latin problem.

‘Easton displeases you?’

‘ _Displeases_ me!’ Lizzie said, furiously. Her blood was up, and she spoke without thought. ‘If I were a man, I should thrash him _soundly_ for what he does to my father-’

Simcoe positively _beamed_ at her. It was so disconcerting she stopped mid-rant.

 ‘Say no more, Miss Lowndes! I _quite_ understand you!’

Lizzie blinked.

‘Wait, what-?’

‘Oh, you needn’t fear. I have it in hand.’

He turned on his heel, strolling jauntily towards the crowd of drinkers.

 

‘Now you’ve done it,’ Selah Strong said grimly, over Lizzie’s shoulder. He had put away his blackthorn stick, Lizzie noticed. ‘If they break my good furniture I’ll have to see that tight-arse Hewlett for payment. And it’s easier getting blood from a stone than squeezing money out of a bloody-back for damages.’

‘When did Pa come in?’ Lizzie muttered, between her teeth. ‘You shouldn’t have _let_ him-?’

‘What, not let him drink? This is a _tavern.’_ Selah nodded in Simcoe’s direction. ‘And _that’s_ a tavern blood-letting in the making.’

Lizzie’s gaze followed the lieutenant’s step with mounting panic. ‘I- I didn’t mean anything by it! I didn’t _think_! I was just wishing that Easton would-‘

‘Mm? Careful what you wish for.’ Selah said, with a certain tart satisfaction. ‘It might just come true.’

 

‘Gentlemen!’ Simcoe’s voice was not overly loud, but it cut through the raucous yells like a knife through butter.

The younger soldiers were not quite as sozzled as Easton. One looked up, horror sinking into the alcoholic fug.

‘Sarge…’ he hurriedly elbowed his neighbour. ‘Sarge! It’s-!’

‘Well now, gentlemen!’ Simcoe said, jovially. He adjusted the frill of his sleeve cuffs with a prim little gesture. ‘Do I need to remind you what the penalty is for drunk and disorderly behaviour likely to disgrace His Majesty’s regiment?’

The whole ugly tenor of the rowdy crowd changed into a sullen, hangdog silence. There was a certain shuffling of feet.

‘No?’ Simcoe feigned surprise. ‘No-one? Anyone _at all_? Not even your _corporal_?’

Easton’s beady little eyes swivelled furtively in their sockets, not daring to look round. He was the only man of rank in the party. The blame fell to him.

But he made a fatal error; he attempted to try bravado, by way of recovery.

 ‘Eh?’ he belched. ‘S’no matter, Loo…Looten’nt. M’off duty! Can’t blame man for being merry when s’off-duty...’

He blinked hopefully up at Simcoe.

‘Off-duty?’  Simcoe gave his peculiarly waxen smile, eyes wide. ‘You don’t say?’

And then -

 

It all happened so fast Lizzie barely saw the movement of his hand. But Simcoe had grasped the back of Easton’s neck, face twisting into a savage snarl, to slam him head-first against the table. It made the crockery jingle. Again, and again, to a cry of muffled yelps.

There was a nasty little ‘crack’ on the final blow. Like something splintering. And a shrill scream from Easton, like a fat rabbit caught in a snare.

‘My d’ose!’

Blood had spattered the crockery, Lizzie noticed, in a haze of fright. Funny, the little details you noticed, but it was just that – the brightness of blood on blue Delftware.  She could have painted it from memory.

‘Think of it as _mild_ correction, corporal ,’ Simcoe said disdainfully.  ‘Debauching yourself amongst the ….’His eye, with an involuntary motion of disgust, turned towards the stupefied Mr Lowndes – but then his gaze wandered back to Lizzie, and he coughed the last part of his speech awkwardly off.  ‘…Locals.’

Mr Lowndes had only been dimly woken by the crash of the corporal’s skull against the table. Seeing his drinking partner raising an incredulous blood-streaked face from amongst the spilt glasses only warranted a half-conscious snort.

‘Eh? Wassamatter?’ He opened one puffy bloodshot eye to smirk tipsily at nothing in particular. ‘Did I … _win_?’

‘ _No_ , Pa.’ Lizzie darted forward. ‘Come on with you,’ she said firmly, pushing one shoulder under Pa’s armpit and heaving like a sailor lugging casks of tea. ‘Up we go, - there …’

To her surprise, he came easily. Selah Strong had followed in her wake and had grabbed Mr Lowndes other arm. Between them Pa came up from the table like a huge ungainly fish, gasping for air and breathing alcohol into their faces.

‘‘My _d’ose_!’ Easton’s voice had risen to an incredulous wail as the pain began to set in. ‘You’ve broken my-’

He quailed under Simcoe’s gaze, stumbled to his feet, and shrank back in an obsequious little half-bow. ‘M’apologies, lieutenant...’he said thickly.

‘Not to _me_.’ Simcoe said sharply. As Lizzie and Selah struggled past him he pushed Pa’s shoulder off Lizzie, leaving Mr Strong staggering under a double weight. ‘You, Strong! Take him upstairs. I’m sure he’s not the first patron you’ve had to help to bed. Not with the gut-rot you serve in this hole. ’

Selah Strong’s dark eyes flashed dangerously. He wasn’t used to being talked to like that in his own tavern. He stopped dead, glowering for a moment, before calming himself with an effort and dragging his dead-drunk customer after him.

Lizzie had been tugged gently but inexorably towards Easton. ‘You shall apologise to the man’s _daughter_ , Corporal. Profusely.’

Easton gaze incredulously slid towards Lizzie, who could almost hear the little wheels in his head turning, confusedly. What had _she_ to do with it? But the blood spattering his mouth and chin made him prudent. He bowed from the waist down, hurriedly gabbling. Most contrite – sorry, miss –merely an evening’s pleasantry…

Lizzie wasn’t going to lie. There was a baser part of herself that exulted in Easton apologising, his nose the size of a China orange. For all the same sort of men she hadn’t been able to protect Pa from over the years. All the other little bullies and cheats and liars who treated her father like a pig’s bladder to kick about for their own amusement...

‘Apology accepted, corporal,’ she said sweetly. Relief briefly flooded Easton’s face. ‘Provided you give the money _back_. It _was_ just an evening’s pleasantry, wasn’t it?’

Had Elizabeth actually delivered the broken nose herself, she couldn’t have been more satisfied at the look of open-mouthed dismay on the corporal’s face. Or the reluctant way he shuffled his purse from his waistcoat pocket and wordlessly counted back Pa’s money to her, before whisking out of the tavern as fast as his little gaitered legs could carry him. The soldiers followed suit, almost inching along the walls. They seemed afraid to turn their backs to Simcoe, in case he gave chase. But the Lieutenant was smiling broadly, suddenly as genial an officer as ever smirked in a lady’s parlour.

‘Pleasant dreams, gentlemen!’ he called.

‘A pound and seven shillings!’ Lizzie said, triumphantly, counting the money. ‘I knew he’d been fleecing Pa, the weasel. I try and watch him, but Pa can be sly – and he looks through my things for money when I’m out…’ She looked up, flushed with victory, and grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’ve wanted to box Easton’s ears for so long!’

‘An understandable impulse, to be sure.’ Simcoe had been studying her reaction. A peculiar hopeful smile had inched its way uncertainly across his face, seeking her approval. ‘You are …pleased?’

‘Why-’ Elizabeth hesitated. The satisfaction in getting the money back, as well as a little cringing from Easton had been unbelievably good; it had been all of Lizzie’s petty dreams of revenge come true at once. But that was the _point_. It should have remained a petty fantasy, not disturbing reality. And she wouldn’t soon forget the eager hunger that had distorted Simcoe’s face during the corporal’s… chastisement. There was a ferocity there that had frightened her. But it was the army, she reasoned uneasily. You could hardly reprimand a soldier for being prone to _fighting_.

 

‘I don’t think I can say “pleased”, Lieutenant,’ she said cautiously. Simcoe’s face fell. ‘But… I can say ‘grateful’, and that makes a world of difference. It was…’ Lizzie cast about for the right word. ‘Kind.’ She finished, somewhat lamely. ‘Yes. It was kind of you to notice the difficulty and…’ she winced inwardly, thinking of the nasty little ‘crack’ Easton’s nose had made. ‘Although I think I should repeat my earlier warning, sir.’ she added, severely. ‘You are _too_ eager for violence. But… I think this may prove a permanent remedy, so I am in your debt…’

She trailed off. A light of elation had flared in Simcoe’s eyes. Something of that obscure hunger and longing Lizzie had perceived at the portrait sitting when she’d briefly touched him during the portrait-sitting.

She felt unaccountably nervous, suddenly aware she was alone in the tavern parlour with him. A book, she decided firmly. She would _definitely_ need a book to give him for tomorrow.

‘My, look at the time!’ she cried, with a false note of surprise. ‘I am keeping you from –‘

‘You are keeping me from nothing, Miss Lowndes.’ Simcoe interrupted, staring down at her. ‘I am a gentleman. I mean what I say.’ For some reason he had ducked his head, so as better to look earnestly into her face.  ‘And I say again; it only wants _your_ correction, if anything in my manners or character should chance to-‘

A door opened, behind them.

‘Er – sir?’

Like a knight in shining armour, a fresh-faced Ensign Baker had charged blithely over the inn threshold, official dispatch in one hand. ‘Sorry, sir, but your presence is requested. There’s been a-‘

A muscle twitched in Simcoe’s cheek. Impatience, mounting fury, scorn – they were all dancing attendance. He turned a venomous stare towards his fellow-officer that would have felled an ox.

‘You _intrude_ , Baker,’ he said, deliberately. His tone was mild, but Lizzie could hear the rising note of the beast frustrated again. He had gone quiet like that just before flooring Easton. ‘You lack manners. A gentleman should know better than that-‘

To Lizzie’s horror, his hand had gently untethered itself from her sleeve. For a moment, she could briefly see the future hanging at the lieutenant’s sleeve-cuff, and it was a future that ended in a clenched _fist_.

She impulsively caught at his hand as he turned. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I think he has a message from the fort. _Don’t_ you, ensign?’

In her desperation to save Baker, Lizzie scarcely thought; but instead of her normal, rather guarded motions she actually made contact with his skin again – something she had rather avoided since the portrait sitting. And her sharp movement propelled her almost square into the centre of his waistcoat.

Simcoe was clearly spoiling for a fight – but a lady pressed in mute appeal against his jacket clearly did very strange things to both the lieutenant’s temper as well as his presence of mind. He blinked, shuddering to a grinding halt. A broken automaton, clockwork whirring uselessly inside.

Baker looked gratefully at Lizzie, in a way that made her cheeks grow pink. ‘Yes,sir. Emergency dispatches sir. Express from Oyster Bay. _New_ orders. The Major’s gathering everyone – all the officers…’

‘Oh?’ Simcoe said vaguely – before mentally rousing himself. ‘Oh. I see. Well, in that case…’ He stepped back from Lizzie, suddenly all business-like officer again. ‘Why didn’t you say so? And what the devil happened to the dispatch-rider, that we only got them _now_?’

‘Night-raid, sir. On-‘

A creak on the stairs roused them all. A pale Anna was leaning against the banisters, pale but determined. She did look ill, Lizzie thought. But for all her impassive face, she was sure Anna hadn’t missed a word.

‘That’ll do, Baker.’ Simcoe said swiftly, with a suspicious glance towards the stairs. The Strongs were clearly well-known to be at least apathetic Loyalists. ‘Tell me on the way. Miss Lowndes, I must apologise-‘

They both left at a half-run.

 

* * *

 

 

‘How long were you there?’

‘Long enough.’ Anna said. She still looked pale and ill, but she had stopped leaning quite so dramatically against the railing. ‘ _Night-raid_? Interesting. Especially in these parts. The Major prided himself on flushing out all dissidents when he first took up quarters here.’ Her eyes gleamed with interest. ‘Did they say anything more? Where it was?’

‘You heard as much as I did.’ Lizzie said briefly. ‘Anna, you don’t look _well_ …’

Anna waved that aside. ‘Tush, it’s nothing! I feel quite put to rights in the evening.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t keep breakfast down lately of a morning, is all. Selah _will_ worry so. He’s had me keep to my rooms and take physic.’ Although there was a little note of strain in Mrs Strong’s voice. ‘Though he _knows_ we’re short-handed...’

‘He’s right, though.’ Lizzie said, helping Anna back up the stairs. ‘If you’re sickening for something…’

‘I _can’t_ sit still and do nothing.’ Anna said impatiently, brushing a loose strand of hair from her eyes. ‘Not when I know he needs me. And then he scolds me for getting out of bed!’

‘Take Cicero back, Anna! If you need him on Sundays…’ Lizzie felt guilty. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

‘Cicero?’ Anna raised an eyebrow. ‘I should think you need him more than ever, after tonight.’

 

Lizzie didn’t comment on that. She couldn’t. She was ashamed of the money from Easton jingling in her pocket. Between them, she and Simcoe had rolled the corporal like a pair of footpads. Granted, he deserved it, but… she shouldn’t have done it. Having any sort of fellow-feeling with Lieutenant Simcoe seemed…incongruous. Dangerous, even.

 

‘Ah well.’ Anna turned towards her room. ‘Maybe we’ll be lucky. If there’s a hidden bastion of Continental regulars hidden in the woods… maybe they’ll finish them off?’

 

Lizzie took the moment, sighing sadly, to slip her poetry into its hiding place beneath the seat cushion before trudging dispiritedly up to bed. It seemed as though there would be no prospect of a reply tonight, or for many nights yet to come – especially if there was some military foray into the wilderness. Baker would be gone. She might never see him again. He might never _know_ -

A lump came into her throat.

 


	11. Response and Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie is recruited as an surgeon's assistant, much against her will...

_Quite unemploy’d, against its own repose_

_It turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangs_

_Than what the body knows embitter life._

_Chiefly where Solitude, sad nurse of care,_

_To sickly musing gives the pensive mind._

_There madness enters…_

John Armstrong, _The Art of Preserving Health_

 

Lizzie’s reprieve lasted longer than a day.

It lasted three. And she hated every minute of it.

Anna was rather perplexed by this in between her fits of sickness; Lizzie wandering around the inn miserable as a Monday morning, poking purposelessly (so it seemed) amongst the tavern cushions, sighing – and taking very little pleasure in anything. Even the prospect of wearing Jenneke’s silk to the dinner at Whitehall. What was the point? _Baker_ wouldn’t be there to see it. Baker was doubtless wandering the wilderness in a scouting party, prey to rebels and freebooters and –

‘Are there bears in these parts?’ Lizzie said anxiously, sitting propped up before the window in Anna’s room. Selah, face crumpling with worry, had all but begged, in his stern, taciturn way, for her to stay with his wife today.

‘ _Bears_!’ Anna snorted, derisively, head bent over the chamber pot. ‘Have you any idea how many hunting dogs the farmers keep around here? Ugh…’ she groaned, and retched a little. ‘I can’t abide much more of this …’

‘You should see a _doctor_ , Anna.’ Lizzie said, concerned. ‘There’s an apothecary –‘

‘Selah’s already seen him. He got a handful of liquorice root I was supposed to boil into a tea. Tea! What’s _that_ supposed to…’ Anna went green, and ducked towards the pot again. The sour smell of vomit filled the close air of the bedroom.

Lizzie took the chamber pot away, emptying it hastily out of the window as fast as she could.

‘You’ve been ill every morning this week, Anna. That’s not _normal_.’ She looked suspiciously over at the heavy earthenware pitcher at the side of the bed. It was still half-full – and smelt strongly of liquorice. ‘Did you try the tea?’

‘As much as I could stomach before….’ Anna gestured exhaustedly. ‘This.’ She slumped back on the bed, eyes closed, pulling the coverlet over her nightgown. ‘I can’t bear much more of this. And Selah needs me…’

‘He needs you _well_.’

‘I know. He’s a good man.’ Anna’s eyes slid away, unwilling to meeting Lizzie’s gaze. ‘But… he can be hard, to those who don’t know him. Or…’

She flicked a glance downstairs, towards the kitchen.

Lizzie understood what she meant.

Anna was the mediator. It was how the Strongs _worked_ as a couple. When Anna said her husband needed her, she meant it in more ways than one; Selah needed Anna as a counterbalance to his own unthinking brusqueness and abrupt manner. He _could_ be kind; but it was a rare moment when he had the patience for it. It was Anna who held benevolent sway over household affairs.

With Anna ill and two households to run single-handed, Selah became snappish, exasperated – harsh. A man who didn’t suffer fools gladly.

Lizzie found herself pitying the future ahead for his house-slaves if Anna remained ill. Especially poor little Cicero, as stable-boy, potboy, and general dogsbody.

‘Is there no-one else, Anna? I know Mr Woodhull talks about the doctor over in Oyster Bay. Pa, er, mentions him …’

Pa had been heartily sick himself after his drinking bout with Corporal Easton. He lay abed moaning about typhoid and plague – as though it had nothing to do with the quarts of gin he’d poured into himself. Lizzie had gladly left him to his self-pity.

‘ _Ugh_ …’Anna screwed up her face in disgust. Lizzie wasn’t sure if it was the idea of the Oyster Bay doctor or Mr Woodhull. ‘No.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ll be all right, Lizzie. Honestly. You’re kind to sit up with me, but I don’t need nursing. Or if I do, Abigail can see to me.’

‘I don’t think I know Abigail.’ Lizzie had seen a flutter of women-servants in blue kersey and linen broadcloth, moving silently as ghosts through the Strong kitchen. With Mr Strong’s temper none of the best, all of the servants seemed to think it the safer course. Lizzie couldn’t have told which was Abigail.

‘She knows you.’ Anna said, settling her pillows behind her. ‘She’s Cicero’s mother. And _he_ likes you, so _she_ certainly does.’

There was a gentle knock at the door.

‘Come in, Abigail!’

The lady who entered was young – perhaps only a year or two older than Lizzie. Why, she must have been no more than a girl when she was married - to have a son Cicero’s age. But she had a calm, capable face, with alert eyes that moved rapidly from Lizzie to Anna.

‘There, you see?’ Anna leant back against her pillows, smiling wanly. ‘Go and tell Selah I drank the liquorice tea, will you? I think Abigail may perhaps-’ she broke off, seeing curiosity skittering across Lizzie’s face.

 ‘Don’t worry,’ Abigail supplied, casting a keen glance at Anna’s dishevelled hair and pale face. ‘I’m used to looking after Mrs Strong. She’ll be right as rain, soon enough.’

Lizzie knew evasion when she saw it. She also realised, as she left the room, that there was some peculiar, unspoken women’s understanding between Anna and Abigail – some secret she wasn’t a part of. Married women tended to do that; gather in close, secretive groups, stop talking when people passed by. I wish they wouldn’t, Lizzie thought, a little annoyed. Just because I’m younger. She felt oddly excluded, as though a door had been shut in her face.

These were apparently women’s things, not for silly girls.

 

Well, Lizzie thought with an offended sniff. This _silly girl_ shall go and clean her paintbrushes.

 

* * *

 

It was a Wednesday morning, dull as ditchwater – and nobody about but a drowsy Cicero sat upright on the mounting block. He had been on groom’s duty overnight, and having to see drunken men into the saddle at every hour on the hour had left him blinking like an owl in daylight, struggling to stay alert . He drooped like a wilting plant against the wall.

‘Why don’t you sleep?’

Cicero shook his head, fiercely. ‘Not with Mr Strong in a temper, Miss. He caught me nappin’ once…’ he shivered. ‘Don’t want to be birched again.’

Lizzie’s lips thinned. ‘He _beats_ you?’

‘Wasn’t so bad. And he was sorry afterwards, because he did it in temper. Ma spoke to Missis Anna about it, and I got a new coat afterwards.’

 Cicero’s falsely bright tone didn’t match his eyes. He had _frightened_ eyes.

‘He won’t beat you today. Not under my eye,’ Lizzie said indignantly. ‘I’m here painting this afternoon. Filling in backgrounds.’ She paused. ‘Mrs Strong lets you stay with me when I’m painting, doesn’t she? Well. You’re on duty. And I think you should find the groom’s pallet in the hay-loft and sleep.’

It was a stormy autumnal day. There was a sickly humidity infusing the air despite the black clouds swelling ominously over Setauket’s chimney-tops. Though it was barely on the stroke of eleven, the thunder-clouds made it dark – and a sudden downpour of warm rain dripped wetly from the gutters and pattered insistently on the roof.

Lizzie wasn’t surprised Cicero simply wanted to curl up and sleep. At least the air of the stables was cool, better than the oppressive heat outside or the furnace-like heat of the inn kitchen. Mr Strong kept it warm to encourage his customer’s thirst. Shrewd business planning, she had to grant him that.

The light was bad. If she lit the groom’s lamp, she could make a few chalk sketches, perhaps clean some of Pa’s encrusted horsehair paintbrushes…

She sighed, and sat down. If she was brutally honest with herself, that was simply an excuse. She had simply wanted time with her thoughts.

With half the regiment gone from Setauket on their mysterious mission, Lizzie’s enticing trickle of poetry had come to a complete stop – more proof, if proof was needed, that Ensign Baker was sophisticated poet and anonymous admirer, as well as an honourable gentleman.

It had lit a fire under Lizzie’s carefully arranged linen cap. A thousand impossible thoughts and wishes stirred beneath it.

One terrible, rather maudlin fantasy that haunted Lizzie was ‘the dying sweetheart’ – a relic of a thousand sentimental tavern ballads. The dying ensign, weltering in his own gore, sending perhaps a plume from his hat or a blood-soaked handkerchief from some impossibly gallant and noble skirmish with the enemy –

There was a pleasing melancholy to it, but Lizzie shrank inwardly away from death- even in a touching, stage-tragedy way. It was too near everyone in a time of war to make stories about it.

Besides, a more practical side of herself reasoned, it would be _extremely_ unsatisfying to have a lover who died before he even had the chance to declare himself. And surely, _surely:_  if all the books and songs and verses were true, then Baker would seek her out as soon as he returned… 

 

Lizzie could already picture it. Ensign Baker returned, happy, drinking his usual penny ale in the snuggery, with that gentle smile that warmed Lizzie right down to her toes when she thought about it. He’d look at her like that, and she’d _know_ he was in love with her…

No, even better! Lizzie whisked away the imaginary backdrop, changing the inn for the shade of an oak tree near the woods at twilight. A tender reunion. She would drop her head on his jacket, and then Baker would stoop to kiss her in the _exact_ manner the hero of “ _Guy Grantley: A Romance_ ” had used in the playhouse last year…

Proper kissing, not mincing little courtesy things. Real, tender _lover_ ’s kisses…

Lizzie flushed a little.

“Heat begets heat,” used to be a favourite saying of the Widow West, when she caught sight of a canoodling couple – or Alex, who as he grew older began to snigger over some of the bawdier broadsheets. It had always sounded so severe and mysterious that a young Lizzie had never dared to question it.

These days – well. Things didn’t seem quite so absolute.

She could dimly hear footsteps in the inn courtyard, and hurriedly bent her head over the pot of dirty paintbrushes left to soak, diligently scrubbing at the paint.

They were slow to pass, those footsteps. They were oddly dragging and irregular, as if it was an effort to take every step.

I wonder who that could be? Lizzie wondered, head bent over the pot. It was too early for any of Mr Strong’s customers to have drunk himself stupid. Probably some old soak of a fisherman, reeling his way towards his nets and lobster pots after a night of drink.

The water was certainly much dirtier – but Pa’s brushes were not much better. She sighed. It would take another trip to the pump and back.

She didn’t see a shadow fall across her back as she turned to look around for the wooden pail. It was only as she straightened and turned that she felt a hand close around her sleeve.

She suppressed a shriek, nearly stumbling over the bucket.

‘Lieutenant Simcoe!’ She hadn’t been prepared for an encounter so soon – and certainly not so suddenly or abruptly. Normally the lieutenant ran on well-timed wheels, like clockwork. Finding him suddenly at her back was like finding a rat nesting in your slipper; both surprising and unwelcome at once.

But Simcoe returned from the wilderness was a very different man to the lieutenant pressed and starched into his best dress uniform.

He had evidently only just returned, for wet red clay still encrusted his gaiters and there were vivid green grass-stains on the white drill of his waistcoat. His uniform was mud-spattered and dusty from the road,  his stock tied slightly askew. He looked more like something that had just clawed its way back to the land of the living from the soft graveyard mould of a burying-ground than a man.

He didn’t speak. Just stood there, swaying a little.

Lizzie retreated backwards, stammering out excuses, ‘I thought you were still- the _regiment_ – You were ordered out, weren’t you?’ A faint note of hope crept into her voice, despite herself. ‘Are you… _all_ returned? All the soldiers?’

 _Baker_ , she thought warmly to herself. _He would be back too..._

Simcoe scarcely even blinked. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, as though he hadn’t used it in years.

‘Just… now,’ he said, simply. ‘I said… I would…come back. Don’t want to miss…hah…’ His lips writhed back from his teeth, in one of his uncomfortable death’s head grins. ‘… _My_ portrait sitting…I returned…’

 Close-to, Simcoe looked a wreck. There were bruise coloured hollows beneath his eyes, and even the too-bright electric blue of his irises seemed faded. His very outline seemed blurred by fatigue. And then there were those peculiar little twitches he kept giving, despite himself – like a man repressing a fit of the shivers.

‘You’ve over-taxed yourself, Lieutenant,’ Lizzie said, eyeing him with concern. She wouldn’t normally have called him a man who invited sympathy, but Lizzie found herself wincing just _looking_ at him. ‘Are you sure you should-’

‘I..kept…my word…didn’t I?’ Simcoe’s gaze was even more disconnected than usual. It wandered over everything at random – Lizzie, easel, paintbrushes, an idle fly buzzing drowsily against a window pane…

‘Better… late… than not… at all…’ He closed his eyes, pain-wracked.

Elizabeth ventured a small step towards him.

‘Yes, that’s very _conscientious_ , but –‘

And it was then that the lieutenant collapsed.

Now, Lizzie had seen swoons before. Admittedly, it was in “ _Guy Grantley_ ”, where the actors always managed to fall soft on conveniently stage drapery, in the most artistic way possible. But she _had_ seen them.

Lieutenant Simcoe’s collapse was neither soft nor artistic. He folded at the knees, hitting the straw and cobblestones with a horrible bone-rattling crash that made her pot of paintbrushes go flying. He clawed weakly at the table for a moment, trying to keep his balance, before helplessly sliding sideways; a puppet with his strings cut.

* * *

 

To Lizzie’s consequent shame, her first reaction was not one of instant compassion. She was left frozen to the spot, staring stupidly at the sickle-moon sliver of Simcoe’s face lying gaping against the stone floor.

 _God, what if he’s dying?_ A dead King’s officer on Selah Strong’s stable floor would raise all sorts of uncomfortable questions, to say the least. _That_ thought jarred her into action.

‘Cicero!’ she shrieked, towards the rafters. ‘CICERO!’

‘Comin’, miss!’ Cicero drowsily poked his head out of the hay-loft, eyes blinking. His mouth fell into a single “O” of shock once he registered the sight of Lizzie bent horror-struck over a fallen officer.

‘Oh, _Miss_!’ Cicero’s hands flew to his mouth. ‘He… he try anything?’ and then, in a small squeak, ‘You kill him?’

‘What?’ Lizzie gawped. ‘No! He fell-‘

She broke off as Simcoe attempted to rise into a sitting position.  ‘I must beg your pardon, Miss Lowndes,’ he said, rather dizzily. ‘I think I must... sit down... I feel a trifle unwell,’ he added, somewhat unnecessarily. 

‘A _trifle_?!’ Lizzie echoed, in disbelief. The lieutenant’s persistent stoicism at such a moment irritated her. What did they _do_ to gentlemen? He must be extraordinarily addicted to his polished public-school veneer. ‘You just fell down!’

‘I did?’ Simcoe muzzily took in the view from the stable  floor, and shuddered, slightly.

‘Not _now_ ,’ he muttered, under his breath – softly, but not so softly that Lizzie couldn’t catch his words. ‘Damned seven months without so much as a-’

He winced, closing his eyes, before blinking and making a determined effort to smile in Lizzie’s direction. ‘I assure you I am _quite_ well-‘

He was still trembling. One errant wisp of pomaded white horsehair was sticking damply to a clammy forehead.

‘Oh yes?’ Lizzie said sharply. ‘And I’m Queen Charlotte.’ She turned. ‘Cicero! Go to the fort would you? Fetch Captain Joyce -’

_‘Not Joyce!’_

Simcoe had seized her as she turned away, his fingers digging into her arm. ‘ _Not_ Joyce,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I don’t want-’A spasm crossed his face, and he fell back towards the floor, gasping for breath, eyes blazing. ‘ **No–one** must know. You understand? **No-one**.’

‘But you need _help_!’ Lizzie said urgently, leaning over. ‘I must fetch _someone…’_

 _‘No officers!’_ Simcoe’s voice had always had a delicate pitch. Under strain, it broke into something closer to a strangled shriek. ‘Not Joyce – ugh, or that little frog-faced bastard…’

Lizzie took that to be a singularly ungracious reference to Major Hewlett, and opened her mouth to say something sharp– but the genuine fright crossing the lieutenant’s long twist of face made her pause. She had never seen _panic_ on Simcoe’s countenance before.

‘They’ll try to be rid of me… Invalid me out… pay me off… some underhand little…’ His grip on her wrist grew tighter as his face clouded with rage at the thought.  ‘Me! Get rid… of _me_?!Leave the field… to **them**? See them in _Hell_ first!’

‘All right,’ Lizzie said quietly. ‘No officers.’

Simcoe evidently recollected himself, for he paused and looked at her. Doubtfully.

‘I _promise_ ,’ Lizzie said, insistently, gently easing his grip around her wrist. She patted his hot, dry hand a little awkwardly. ‘ _No_ officers. But… there must be someone who can help you? What about Appleton? Or Lieutenant Wakefield? Aren’t they your…’ her voice trailed off. ‘Your… friends?’

Lizzie faltered even as she said it, realising how unlikely it sounded. Simcoe did not have _friends_. You couldn’t imagine it. He was too cold and distant with his fellows for that – and his exacting, imperious tone hardly encouraged anything but smothered resentment. Major Hewlett had a profound distaste for the man that showed even in everyday civilities, and as for amongst the Setauket villagers themselves...

Well.All told, the man in the moon probably had more friends than Lieutenant Simcoe.

Simcoe himself seemed to acknowledge this, almost matter-of-factly. He shrugged, as if to say: ‘what are “friends” to me?’ before another spasm left him curled up in agony, a hastily suppressed whimper escaping his clenched teeth.

 ‘Maybe he’s prone to them?’ Cicero suggested, his voice a squeak of fright. He had inched indecisively away from the doorway, cap held bunched in his hands. ‘I know a field-hand over at Farmer Grisham’s has fits. Stick between the teeth works…’ 

‘That’s epilepsy, isn’t it? He needs a doctor.’ Lizzie reached out to gently touch Simcoe’s rigid shoulder. She thought, and then rephrased the question. 'Is there someone you _trust_?’ 

It was getting harder for the lieutenant to concentrate through his shivering fits. His face had contorted into the same beast’s snarl Lizzie had seen the night before in the inn parlour – but he summoned enough self-control to answer her.

‘Kennock,’ he grated out, at last. ‘Get Kennock. He knows.’

‘Kennock’s the regiment surgeon, Miss,’ Cicero piped up. ‘Works up at the barracks. We don’t see him down here much. ‘

‘Know where you can find him?’

Cicero nodded, gravely. But he still hovered in the doorway, uncertainly.

Are you sure you _want_ me to leave you, Miss?’

‘I’m alright, Cicero. Go on!’

He took the hint. He sped off as fast as his young legs could carry him.

 

* * *

 

Simcoe was looking frowningly towards the hay loft. He was by no means stupid, even when a shuddering wreck on the floor of the stables, and Lizzie, guilt-stricken, could almost hear the little clicks and whirrs of his mind. Suppose he worked out Cicero had been her unofficial chaperone from the first?

‘He was on stable duty!’ she said awkwardly, feeling horribly defensive even as she said it. ‘I said he could take some rest. Mr Strong works him too hard…’

But the lieutenant was scarcely listening. He had shut his eyes again. Perhaps he hadn’t realised about Cicero after all, Lizzie thought, much relieved. She sighed, and sat back on her heels.

‘It  isn’t epilepsy.’

Simcoe’s voice was so quiet she could scarcely hear it.

‘Pardon?’

The lieutenant had opened one eye, and was attempting to look at her – as far as his shivering would allow.

‘It isn’t epilepsy.’ He repeated. He winced, blinking a little. ‘It’s fever. I had it… in San Domingo. The Greeks used to call it… the “immortal affliction”. Aha..Ceasar, you know… he had it...’

That was another thing Captain Joyce had been wrong about then. Simcoe had been in the West Indies. Long enough for fever.

‘Does this happen often?’ Lizzie asked, tentatively.

‘It comes and it goes.’ Simcoe’s expression grew ferocious as he looked down at his shaking hands, trying to scowl himself back into good health. ‘I usually conquer it -‘

He stopped short, began again in a sharper voice. I _will_ conquer it. I have a… strong constitution. I am not usually subject… to such… _weakness_ …’

‘Weakness?’

‘Only _lesser..._ men are prone to agues,’ Simcoe said viciously. ' _Weak..._ ugh _.._ men.'

Lizzie gaped at that. She had never seen or heard anyone try to argue their way out of a fever before. Simcoe seemed to think an illness could be forced out of the nervous system with a musket-butt.

‘ _Everyone_ has bouts of sickness from time to time, Lieutenant. _Everyone_. It’s not a matter of moral rectitude. What a stupid notion!' she sat back, baffled.  'Well, _I_ certainly don’t think less of you for being ill.’

A surprised, gently gratified look briefly transfigured Simcoe’s pained grimace. It quite took Lizzie unawares , for it was honest, quite simple emotion. Not a mechanical counterfeit of what he thought “gentlemen” should say or do. He was actually _grateful_ for that strange reassurance.

* * *

 

 But ‘conquering’ the fever did not seem to be going well. In the next moment Simcoe had set his teeth again, clutching at his trembling legs and muttering a string of virulent curses under his breath. When he next looked up at Lizzie, he had arranged his face into the blank face of a cold, indifferent stranger.

‘I would rather… you _left_ me ….now, Miss Lowndes.’

Lizzie was rather piqued by his abrupt tone of dismissal. ‘Leave you?’ she said, incredulously. ‘Like this?! No. Not until your army doctor comes…’

‘This…will not be… _pleasant_. It’s taking a…. long course, God rot the poxy-‘ Simcoe bit his lip, so hard that blood flecked the corners of his twitching mouth.

‘It can… lead to …fits. Of a…violent…nature.’

Lizzie quailed, inwardly. Given Simcoe’s natural habit of understatement, she didn’t like to think what ‘violent’ fits might entail. But the man was a wreck. He couldn’t even walk. She couldn’t just leave him….

The beginning of another spasm was already shaking the Lieutenant. His voice took on a strangled note. ‘If you **please**. Leave. **Now**. I would rather… you did not...’

‘I don’t have to _see_ , if you’d rather I didn’t.’ Lizzie got up, brushing wisps of straw from her skirts and turned as though to leave.

But meek obedience was not what Elizabeth had in mind. Turning deliberately away from the door, she grabbed her joint-stool by one leg and dragged it after her towards the empty loose-box with a sharp, decisive little scrape across the flagstones.

‘I’m not leaving until the army surgeon sees to you,’ she shouted defiantly over her shoulder. ‘Like it or _not_.’

Simcoe’s voice was ragged with suppressed pain and mounting frustration. ‘I distinctly **told** you to leave, madam-‘

‘And I **chose** to ignore you, Sir. I’m not some camp orderly you can throw out by the ear! That is all false pride and  - and wounded vanity!’ Lizzie snapped, exasperated. ‘Suppose you die whilst I’m gone, hmm? _I’m_ not explaining to Mr Strong and your Dr Kennock why your corpse is littering the stable floor!’

There was a stony, offended silence from the tack-room.

Oh, so he _sulks_ now, Lizzie thought, irritated. It was probably an insult to suggest that John Graves Simcoe, illustrious pig-headed godson of Admiral Graves, would do anything so commonplace as simply _dying._

She sat down with an affronted little bounce on the stool, wondering how her life had come to this. Still. The regiment was returned. That meant Ensign Baker was returned, too.

Ensign _Baker_ wouldn’t be stubborn as a stone and flatly dismissive. He was kind, and gentlemanly, and he would find her reply and write back at once…

A terrible gurgling, rattling noise tore through Lizzie’s daydreams like sandpaper through silk, mixed with a peculiar ringing clatter that she couldn’t place at first. Until she sprang up, and saw-

 Simcoe hadn’t been exaggerating his case. The clatter was the convulsive drumming of his hobnailed heels against the flagstones. He was lying there twitching; eyes rolling into the back of his head, arms flailing uselessly…

‘Oh, _hell_!’

Lizzie rushed over blindly, appalled. _I shouldn’t have wandered off. I shouldn’t have given him that space to fall into a fit…_

 

* * *

 

‘He’s comin’, Miss!’

Cicero rushed through the door, flushed and sweating. ‘He’s comin’. I told him who it was, and-‘

 

‘Well now!’ A sardonic voice boomed from the doorway. ‘If it isn’t old butcher-boy John. _Why_ am I not surprised?’

Surgeon Kennock – or rather Doctor Kennock, of His Majesty’s Army, did not effect regimentals. He wore a very shabby grey horsehair wig that looked as though there might be rats nesting in it, no collar, and looked as though he’d slept in his clothes – but you could see, on the instant, why Hewlett had employed him. He had the keen , slightly jaded look of a world-weary medical student who has seen everything and cares for nothing less than patching up the next body under his hands.

 He didn’t hesitate an instant once he caught sight of the shuddering remains of the Lieutenant. The tolerant sarcastic smile dropped instantly  from his face.

‘Move,’ he barked. ‘You might have _said_ , boy! I thought he’d beaten another sorry mother’s son into next Wednesday…’

‘I _said_ Mister Simcoe needed you,’ Cicero said, sheepishly. Both he and Lizzie shared a terrified, uncertain glance. ‘I _meant_ for himself!’

‘What ails him?’ Lizzie interrupted. ‘He said it was fever…’

‘It’ll be those _bloody_ night marches that did it,’ Doctor Kennock muttered furiously, dropping the battered leather bag by his side. He knelt down, leaning across to pin down his flailing arms with a stolid professional touch.  ‘Night air, the damp – and just typical of the man!  He could have had a dose of physic before he left. Light the lantern, will you, lad?  I need _light_. You. Miss. What’s your name?’

‘Me? Oh.' Lizzie bobbed an awkward curtsey. 'I'm Lizzie.’

‘Well, Lizzie - I will need cold water. Lots of it.  And we’ll need to move him further in.’

‘Wait, you’re not taking him to the infirmary?’

‘Can’t move him as he is.’ Kennock sharply tugged at the tight black silk stock about Simcoe’s neck, loosening it. The terrible scarlet flush of the Lieutenant’s countenance eased a little. ‘Besides, he’d be drummed into a desk job if the other officers knew it was malaria.' He sniffed. ' John's been _damned_ lucky, so far...’

‘Malaria?’ Lizzie said bleakly. Malaria was as deadly as plague, from all the vague sailors tales she’d heard. Killed you fast, ruined you faster with the constant shivering and shaking. A man was good for nothing after a bout of malaria, if he survived it.

‘Oh, it’s an infrequent thing with him. Happens twice a year at most. And if you’ve the right physic, it needn’t be…’ Frustrated, Doctor Kennock gestured down. ‘Well, _this_. But supply lines aren't what they were. And he will pretend he doesn’t need to take it, blast the man… ’

He eyed Lizzie, clearly wondering, for a moment, who she was ; but he dropped his gaze, curiosity giving way to practicalities.

‘He’s half-stifled. Get the coat off.’

It was no easy matter, attempting to pull the jacket off a man in the throes of a convulsion, even between the three of them – and it felt rather ungainly, assisting at it. Without the sharp lines of his uniform coat and starched ruffles, Simcoe looked oddly… vulnerable. Less unassailable. It felt like an intrusion; something she wasn’t meant to see.

Cicero breathlessly dropped the horse blanket he used over the Lieutenant’s faintly-twitching legs, before bobbing his head awkwardly.

‘It’s getting late. They’ll need me in the inn,’ he said, shyly. ‘I’m potboy again. Will he… be all right?’

‘Mmf.  Can’t say.’ Kennock had begun unceremoniously rolling the unconscious officer over towards the groom’s pallet in the corner, as though the lieutenant was a side of beef. ‘He hasn’t broken sweat yet. He _needs_ to sweat. Pull the door closed after you, boy? Don’t need more witnesses than necessary…’

* * *

 

Kennock bent over him with the lamp in hand, prosaically pulling one eyelid up . ‘Far gone,’ he pronounced, brusquely.  ‘See how dilated those pupils are? Probably for the best.’

Lizzie had noticed before that the lieutenant had peculiarly pale, colourless eyelashes. Seen under the flickering, foul-smelling oil lamp, it gave a lurid, ghastly appearance to those unseeing eyes. Wherever Simcoe was, he was certainly far beyond anyone’s calling him.

‘Is he… asleep?’ she asked, tentatively. The rolling edge of white eyeball flickering up towards the ceiling didn’t reassure her very much.

‘Coma, more like.’ Kennock shrugged. ‘ Depends. At least he’s not still convulsing. We can hope it’s just a fit. I’ve known fellows lie quiet like that- and then get up and play merry hell again, lively as anything…’

Lizzie repressed a shudder. With the exposed eyeballs staring upward, and the crusted froth about his mouth, Simcoe looked more than a little like a grisly spectre from a winter’s ghost story. The thought of him rising from his pallet- 

But fortunately Doctor Kennock had let fall the raised lids.  Simcoe dwindled – almost - into a man again, although his breath still shook in his throat. Lizzie couldn’t _bear_ that peculiar, choking breathing. It sounded like a death-rattle.

She went to Cicero’s corner and pulled out the striped ticking pillow, before returning to tuck it beneath Simcoe’s head. She hardly _liked_ to touch him, but…

 _Steady,_ Lizzie told herself. _He’s deep under. He won’t remember a thing_. She gingerly managed to lift his head and shoulders up enough to fluff up the remaining pillow and pile them up so he could breathe more easily. It was no easy matter, manhandling Simcoe – he was heavy, and he lolled unpleasantly, like a rag doll. But she managed to get him into a better position on the pillow. The horrible gurgling in his throat subsided . He could at least breathe easier.

A sudden, unexpected glimmer beneath the light of the lamp caught Lizzie’s attention. The dark of the stables and the twilight had disguised Simcoe’s cropped scalp as being anything but a convict’s mass of dark bristles. But there was a sullen gleam of red, when Lizzie moved the lamp a little closer. An unusual flicker of colour.

 _Auburn_ , Lizzie thought, suddenly enlightened. That explained much that had puzzled her during the painting session. That peculiarly fair skin; the barely- there eyebrows and lashes – and that peculiar habit of flushing pink like a girl, that sat so strangely with his character. No wonder she had so much trouble painting him; she hadn’t known the right _colours_ to use…

But who would have thought Lieutenant Simcoe a _redhead_?

But there it was. At the very base of his neck, there was even an errant cluster of hair that had escaped the barber’s knife .It curled into a small, close-cropped twist of burnt copper. 

What a pity he cut it close! Lizzie couldn’t help but think, with a detached artist’s admiration. She would rather have liked to have painted the lieutenant if he’d had his own hair. You didn’t often come across that subtle shade of auburn – and given his fair colouring, the contrast would have proved rather striking…

‘Tending the patient?’ Kennock shot her an amused stare over his apothecary’s box.

Lizzie started, conscious she had been bent over the pillow like a simpering miss, breathing all but square against Simcoe’s cheek. She reared back, abruptly.

‘I was looking at his _hair_ ,’ she said defensively. ‘I’d never seen the colour before. That was _all_! ’

Kennock’s eyebrows rose a fraction. But he had the tact to say nothing. He merely turned back to his apothecary chest and began to poke about amongst the bottles. ‘Blast, where is it? I know it’s here…damn fool quartermaster…’

After some muttering, he eventually found what he was looking for. ‘ _Ahh_ , this is what we need. Tincture of Peruvian bark.’  He held it up, triumphantly.

 ‘What does that do?’ Lizzie eyed it dubiously. It was a great glass-blower’s monstrosity of a bottle, with something blood-coloured sloshing about at the bottom. ‘Will it… help?’

‘The only remedy that does.’ Kennock said. ‘Calms the fever, stops those shivering fits. Certainly eases the delirium, which is what we need. Although he’ll be limp as a dishcloth afterwards.’  The surgeon chuckled. ‘I fancy that’ll be _worse_ , for him. Not a man patient being quiet, our Johnny. ’

Mentally, Lizzie’s brain reared back from the notion of anyone calling Lieutenant Simcoe ‘our Johnny’ to his face. Even _trying_ to imagine it…good _Lord_. She covered her confusion by bending over the bed, dabbing away the flecks of froth at his mouth with one of the soaked linen strips Kennock had to hand.

It was perhaps fortunate for Mr Kennock that his patient was unconscious. But doctors, like sickness itself, are no respecters of persons, and the sparsely built Exeter man was all business-like impudence. The cold water must have revived Simcoe a little, for his head tossed restlessly on the pillow. He snorted like a sick horse, eyelids fluttering.

‘Aha. Good. He’s coming to.’ Kennock raised his voice. ‘You awake, man? Eh? Back in the land of the living?’ He waved one hand in front of his eyes, testing the slack unfocused stare. ‘Come _on_. Snap to it, eh, John? You’re normally out there making more butcher’s work for me, aren’t you? Eh?’

He was practically bawling in his patient’s face now, There was a worried edge to Doctor Kennock’s voice as he got no response. He scrabbled towards his apothecary’s bag.

‘I don’t like that lethargy of his,’ he murmured. ‘Fellow has to be _conscious_ to get this down. Don’t want to drown the man in quinine…’

‘Couldn’t you hold his nose?’ Lizzie suggested, vaguely remembering the unappetising doses of physic she and Alexander had been forced to take over the years. The Widow West had possessed a surprisingly firm manner when it came to medicine. ‘Or… or… smelling salts? That might bring him round.’

‘He’s not a lady in the vapours!’ Kennock snapped. He relented. ‘Something sharp-scented might do…’

But all their anxious cogitations were cut short, for Simcoe began to move. And swear.

There was something rather grand, Lizzie decided, with detached admiration, in the way the lieutenant could pour forth a stream of obscenity in the same polite, mincing, neat little voice he used in everyday life. It was like declaiming Latin, only Latin masters probably didn’t combine people, parts of the body, their grandmothers, and various animals in _quite_ the same way.

He stopped only to draw breath.

Kennock approached, cautiously. ‘Graves?’

 _Less of the ‘our Johnny’ now he’s awake_ , Lizzie thought tartly. Clearly the surgeon was wary of rousing Simcoe’s resentment – even a fevered, delirious Simcoe.

‘Do you know where you are, Graves?’ The doctor made urgent motions towards the bottle. _Give it here, quick…_

But the sharp movement was unwise. Lizzie had ducked as Simcoe lunged forwards, but Kennock was not so quick; caught square in the face by a wild blow from a clenched fist, he fell to the floor like a stunned ox.

Lizzie, on the floor, let out a smothered squeak.

‘I’ll kill you, Greenhalgh,’ Simcoe spoke almost conversationally. He didn’t seem _aware_ that he had felled the doctor, for he stumbled blindly past him backing toward the wall. All whilst disconnectedly addressing some invisible adversary. ‘I’ll get you. You _and_ Henshaw.  If it takes me years to do it, I’ll-‘

He swayed, leaning heavily against the wall.

Lizzie drew herself into a defensive half-crouch, tempted to run. _Get help for Kennock._ Her common sense told her. _Forget  Simcoe and his precious “no officers.”_ _Run. A couple of privates can deal with **him**. _

 But If you run, the beast chases. Lizzie wasn’t at all sure she could outrun a delirious madman under such desperate circumstances as this. Besides something about Simcoe’s posture, crouched against the wall, made her look again. More carefully. 

He looked _upwards_ when he was addressing his invisible enemies. _Upwards._ Lizzie thought. _A man who’s over six feet in his stockinged feet?_

 Simcoe wasn’t _here_ in Setauket, in a room with a painter’s daughter and a half-stunned surgeon. He was lost somewhere where he _wasn’t_ proud Lieutenant Simcoe.

Somewhere where he was much smaller.

 _I’ll get you._ That was a child’s threat, wasn’t it? A schoolboy’s parting shot.

She stood up. It was a risk, but everything was, at this point - and this was one she was prepared to take. 

Lizzie could hazard a guess _where_ Lieutenant "Butcher-Boy" John Graves Simcoe was in his fever-dreams. Possibly even _when_. And that in itself awoke a glimmer of understanding.

Sympathy, even.

 She  only had women’s weapons at her disposal; observation, emotional intelligence – the art of compromises and peace-making.  She reached for them instantly, and without hesitation.

* * *

 

 

‘John!’ she said, clearly.

Simcoe started at the sudden movement, and rounded towards her, nostrils flaring – but he stopped like a horse baulking at a hedge, uncertain. Her dress and voice had filtered into his delirium, confusing him.

‘What’re you doing?’ Kennock wheezed, struggling to raise himself up from her floor. He looked aghast. ‘Don’t be a fool! You can’t reason with him – _run_ , girl!’

Lizzie ignored him. She moved forwards a step, keeping her movements slow and gradual . ‘John! What _are_ you doing up?’

She kept her voice light, playful. She remembered how unused Simcoe had been at that first sitting to anyone using his Christian name. Perhaps the last person to do so had been his mother or nurse, some distant feminine memory? _Pretend he’s a child,_ Lizzie thought. _The fever makes him believe it. I have to believe with him._

‘You should be in bed.’ She said persuasively. ‘Hmm?’

Simcoe’s face crumpled. He was still twitching, hands clenching and un-clenching as though preparing for a fight, but the terrible frenzied glare had seeped away from his eyes. He was coming back to some semblance of sanity. Slowly.

She carefully inched closer until she was by his side, slipping one arm through his – grimacing a little as he staggered, his weight hitting her shoulder. Clearly only the impetus of the fever had been keeping Simcoe upright. His skin still _burned_ hot and dry, Lizzie noticed with dismay. He hadn’t broken a sweat yet. That wasn’t good.

 ‘There, now,’ she said soothingly, feeling his forehead. ‘See? Everything’s _all right.’_

Simcoe looked rather hazily at her.

‘Greenhalgh-‘ he began, sluggishly, with an air of earnest explanation. He was still a child, waking during a nightmare.

‘It was a dream.’ Lizzie murmured, slowly beginning to inch them both towards the pallet. ‘Just a _bad_ dream...’

 Incredibly, Simcoe was letting her do it. Perhaps it was simply the reaction setting in after his sudden spring from the bed; or it might be instinctual nursery obedience coming to the fore, all adulthood wiped clean away from his memory by the fever. But he let her coax him into a slumped sitting position amongst the lump pillows, whilst Kennock unsteadily pulled himself to his feet and frantically wrestled with the bottle of quinine.

 

* * *

 

 ‘There,’ he panted, wincing a little. ‘That should do.’ He handed her a small foot-glass. ‘The gin makes it easier to swallow. Bitter stuff, is quinine. If you can get him to take it, and keep it down…’

‘Shouldn’t you do it?’ Lizzie said tensely. She didn’t dare move, in case she broke her spell. In case Simcoe got up shrieking. Besides, the lieutenant might seem quiet, but he  was still desperately clinging to her hand as she settled him down.

 ‘What if I get it _wrong_?’

  ‘Nothing to get wrong now. Once he drinks it off. I can't say I had the same influence’ Kennock gestured ironically to his swelling face. ‘ He seems more biddable with _you.’_

 He sighed, and scrubbed his bruised cheekbone with vague annoyance. ‘Ah. You _can_ tell he’s a sick man. Didn’t even break it!’ he said, not without satisfaction. ‘I shall tell him that, when he’s himself again. He will be very annoyed. Prides himself on his right hook, does John. I should have remembered that.’ He made a face. ‘Should have remembered how much he hates “Graves”, too. It was his schoolboy nickname.’

‘You were at school with him?’ Lizzie said distractedly, dabbing almost at random at the Lieutenant’s face with the cold water.

 A sudden chill entered the air. Kennock's pleasant urbanity melted away like fallen snow. 'I was.' he said, shortly.

Ask no more, his eyes warned her. But Lizzie could scarce help it.

‘Who was Greenhalgh? Do you know?’

‘Greenhalgh?’ Kennock shrugged his shoulders. ‘Never heard the name before.  Men in delirium say all sorts of nonsense. I wouldn’t pay any attention to it.’

It was a blatant lie. 

But his eyes challenged her; who are you to ask? And Lizzie suddenly felt she had trespassed somewhere dark and unpleasant. 

She looked away, fidgeting nervously with the bandages.

‘Ugh, but that was a hard bout!’ Kennock grimaced, stretched his aching limbs. ‘I’ve never had a patient _quite_ so lively. Now Missy – look, I will step into that alehouse of yours for whatever peculiar ale they serve here. But I will return; I can get a couple of orderlies who know how to keep their mouths shut.  Between us, I’ll get him to the infirmary. Can I trust you with him for an hour?’

Lizzie nodded, her face set. She felt she had to atone for her curiosity a little. 

‘Good. See he takes the quinine, then use the cold rags and water to cool him. When he breaks sweat he’ll be out of the worst of it. It won’t be more than the appearance of a head-cold in a couple of days.’

Kennock paused. ‘You’re a steady girl. Weren’t you afraid for yourself?’ He gestured over to the prone Lieutenant. ‘What if he’d gone for you?’

Lizzie thought about it.

‘I _was_ afraid,’ she admitted. ‘But I was more –‘ She was at a loss to describe precisely what she felt. ‘I suppose –I was more afraid of what would happen if I left him. What if he died, what if he hurt himself…’

It was the way you might feel for a child, or an injured animal left bleeding in a trap. But Lizzie didn't voice that sensation of remote pity. She returned to what she did know. ‘I don’t think Lieutenant Simcoe would have turned on me. I don’t think he _could_.’

‘Really?’ Kennock looked interested. ‘But the man’s in the grip of _delirium._ How could you know what he would or wouldn’t do?’

Lizzie wasn’t sure, when she came down to it. Really, what had prevented Simcoe from seeing her as another childhood nightmare to be struck down?

But then she found her answer.

‘I think...he _tries_ to be a gentleman with ladies. Too hard, sometimes, but he tries. That doesn’t change.’

‘Ho. I _see_.’ Kennock said thoughtfully, looking at Lizzie’s rather agitated, concerned face – and then down, towards the lieutenant. Simcoe had fallen into a state of stupefaction – awake, but scarcely able to do more than blink at his attendants. ‘It doesn’t, does it?’

He shut up his doctor’s bag. ‘Well, remember what I said. Makes sure he takes the dram of Peruvian bark, cold rags – and a little sip of water probably wouldn’t go amiss, either.’

He turned, just before he left.

‘I’m leaving him in your hands now, Miss Lizzie.’ He said, almost warningly. ‘What happens from this point on – well, it rests with _you_.’


	12. A Little Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie glimpses a curious creature inside the waxen person of a certain Lieutenant...

**Macbeth:**  
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,  
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,  
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,  
And with some sweet oblivious antidote  
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff  
Which weighs upon the heart?

 **Doctor:**  
Therein the patient  
Must minister to himself.

 **Macbeth:**  
Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.

 _Macbeth Act 5, scene 3, 40–47_

Lizzie felt a distinct sense of relief once Doctor Kennock had left. Relieved, and at the same time, oddly embarrassed at her unlikely role as nurse; more so since Simcoe seemed feebly conscious again. His pale eyelashes didn’t disguise the fact there was a sliver of pupil following her movements as she turned to freshen the rags by shaking the excess water out.

Lizzie wondered just _where_ he was, inside his head. Was he here? Or was he still living through some long-discarded memory, old school-friends and childish enemies jostling elbows for room? She hoped not, for his sake.

Lizzie _knew_ about school.

Not from her own experience, of course –she had been at home, with a cracked hornbook and whatever books Pa hadn’t yet pawned away. It was fortunate she had been a quick child who liked reading; she might never have learnt anything if she’d been slow, or easily bored.

But every once in a while, Pa would have a fit of parental remorse where his son was concerned. When there was money, he’d send Alexander to school. To ‘better himself.’

And Alex had _hated_ it. They were never in one place long enough for him to settle, and schoolboys are cruel enough to each other, let alone to outsiders.

Alexander was _always_ the outsider. He was always the newcomer from Boston, or New York, or half the other places they’d wandered about, with cut-down clothes and down-at-heel shoes. The schoolmasters, ever impatient and ready with the rod, beat him for the gaps in his Latin grammar, his slow, hesitant way with arithmetic – and for the sailing ships Alexander used to draw all over his slate instead of learning his lessons.

Alex had _liked_ ships, Lizzie remembered wistfully. He’d probably have been beaten less as a common powder-monkey in the Royal Navy than he was in the crude halls of genteel Education.

 

One day, when Lizzie had been looking out from her window waiting for her big brother to come home, three  “big” boys had chased him down towards the inn, barking like dogs – cuffing his legs, hacking at his calves with birch switches, faces alight with juvenile malice. Alex had been howling, swatting helplessly at his tormentors, hands over his head…

Lizzie had gone hot with anger. She had been an impulsive child, quick and passionate, and keenly indignant about injustice – especially where her brother was concerned.

She’d shouted at them, she remembered. They’d all hooted with laughter at the tiny girl in pinner cap and apron bawling her lungs out from the upstairs window – although they’d scattered sharpish when Lizzie threw the contents of her water basin at them. She was only sorry it hadn’t been her chamber-pot. Or boiling oil.

Lizzie could see tears of helpless rage streaking her brother’s face as he’d looked after them.

Even then she’d understood, with a pang of dismay:  her family wasn’t invulnerable. People could still hurt you. Lizzie would have traded her eye-teeth to have saved Alex from that.

 

Seeing the lieutenant’s in his fever had made her think back to that day. Back to her brother, and childhood. How unfair it had all been.

 Of course, Alexander _did_ escape in the end. He did it by flatly refusing to go to school. Pa would might coax or command as he pleased. Alex would simply stop his ears to his father, dust himself off stolidly after Pa’s own half-hearted beatings, and play truant again. He used to sit by the docks, helping unload boats for a few pence, watching the sailors. As well as money and his dinner, he picked up learning in his fashion; choice curse-words that made Lizzie’s eyes open wide with wonder. He mightn’t have been able to manage Latin, but Alex was fluent in swearing, in any language. In the end Pa grumbled, thought of a better use for his money, and let Alex do as he pleased, bar the painter’s apprenticeship. Alexander had managed to get away from school for good.

* * *

 

To her relief, Simcoe felt a little cooler. The water and linen rags were doing their work.

 Lizzie found herself bathing the lieutenant’s forehead with a gentler touch. More of a caress than any strict nursing technique, but that half-glimpse into well-educated purgatory had nudged her into concern for the man; something she had hardly thought possible.

Simcoe’s confiding in the doctor made _sense_. Kennock knew how to keep his patients’ secrets; and in any case, he was a terse, quiet-spoken man, the sort of man the officers of Hewlett’s regiment would instinctively respect.

She bent over to soak another rag in the bowl, an odd mixture of pity and regret bubbling through her head. The pity was abstract – a vague feeling of compassion. But the regret was stronger. Regret that she hadn’t thought to learn a little more about her peculiar painting-subject. Simcoe was more human than he pretended, and oddly enough, he had trusted _her_ with knowledge of his weakness.

That was an _extraordinary_ level of confidence, to place in someone who was barely more than an acquaintance. You could describe John Graves Simcoe as many things, but ‘trusting’ wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind; another side-effect of his “gentlemanly” upbringing.

But what if you _couldn’t_ run away? Lizzie thought, remembering Simcoe crouched at bay, his back to the wall. That had been a defensive move - the last stand of a desperate, cornered thing. What if you were stuck in the twenty-guinea a year hell of a gentleman's private school, with nowhere to run?

No wonder so many younger sons joined the army. After years of tormenting each other to no effect, it must almost be a relief to be able to fight.  Just to do something about it.

Lizzie realized;  if Pa had been sober, comfortably off, and a morally upright pillar of the community, Alex might have had no choice, either...

As she was half-musing on a wave of nostalgia, wondering how Alex might have turned out as a gentleman, she felt a lean-boned hand curl around her own, guiding her fingertips from cheekbone to the sharp curves of his chin.

 Simcoe was awake.

 

The shock of the unexpected touch made Lizzie freeze, afraid of what would happen next. What if he were still delirious - or heaven help her, still _violent_?

But Simcoe didn't seem disposed to break heads, or furtniture. He hadn’t even seized her hand in his usual impatient fashion. He had just experimentally turned his cheek a little closer towards her fingers, whilst he peered upwards through his eyelashes at her, to see what impression he’d made.

It was funny, really. She hadn’t noticed before, but men had different skin when it came to touch. Not like a woman’s at all. It was still soft, but just slightly less yielding – and she could feel the warm prickle of tomorrow’s bristles, just below the skin…

Lizzie felt her cheeks grow hot at the unexpected contact. He did still feel feverish to the touch; like the heat from a warming pan before the fire.

She twitched her hand experimentally, to see if he would let her pull away.

 ‘Do you know where you are?’ she said anxiously, in a hushed voice.

Simcoe let out a shuddering breath, closed his eyes

‘Yes,’ he said faintly.  His fingers had relaxed: Lizzie could have pulled her hand away if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t. Something stopped her.

‘Do you think you could drink a little?’

Simcoe didn’t  - or perhaps couldn’t – reply. At least not in words. He let out a hoarse croak that was something like assent, and looked up at her through his pale eyelashes again with a bewildered, half-helpless stare that did more than anything to convince Lizzie of his fever.

She hastily turned towards the foot glass of physic, trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing. If anything was a sure remedy for diverting the awkwardness of the moment, tincture of Peruvian bark should be it...

It certainly proved so. It smelt bitter, acrid, and decidedly medicinal, despite the cheap gin Kennock had mixed it with to disguise the taste.

 Simcoe made a face of revulsion against his pillow when she picked it up.

‘Tastes foul,’ he rasped, and half raised a hand to push it away. ‘Like horse-piss…’

‘That’s Setauket’s _finest_ horse-piss to you, sir,’ Lizzie said, reprovingly. ‘It’s to make you well. Dr Kennock says you’ll be on the mend once you’ve taken it. No one said you had to _like_ it.’

‘Just as well.’ Simcoe murmured bitterly.

 Lizzie put the glass to his lips to help him drink. He managed a few sips, before he pushed it away, coughing.

‘No more. It chokes me.’

‘All right for now?’ Lizzie put the half-empty glass down. She was getting more accustomed to her role as nurse. ‘What about some water, to wash it down? Kennock said you would be thirsty…’

Simcoe blinked at her, head turned slightly to one side, before nodding, limply.

Lizzie had nothing better than a battered leather pannikin for the water – and she spilt more than a little. But he drank eagerly enough, and seemed a little better for it. .

The quinine had begun to do its work.

There was now a faint trickle of sweat dampening Simcoe’s forehead, instead of that dry heat that had worried Kennock so much – and the terrible puce flush was gradually fading away.

 ‘It _has_ done you good.’ Lizzie said with satisfaction. ‘You look less…pink.’

‘I should like some more cold rags, please,’ Simcoe said hopefully, watching Lizzie’s hands with a speculative air. She had dropped her fingers from his cheek under pretence of adjusting the horse-blanket, and the lieutenant had looked quite crestfallen.  ‘I am feverish.’ 

‘You’ll grow worse if you don’t take your quinine,’ Lizzie said forbiddingly, ignoring the longing stare. ‘If you don’t drink it, Kennock will fetch orderlies to hold your nose and _make_ you drink it _._ ’

 The lieutenant looked disgusted as he took the glass, with such ill grace that Lizzie nearly laughed. His mouth had turned decidedly down at the corners.

 ‘I had thought,’ he remarked sourly, ‘that ladies were supposed to be of a sweet and nurturing disposition.’

 ‘Don’t be such an infant, lieutenant! Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Besides, Kennock entrusted your recovery to me. You don’t want me to betray a trust, do you?’

Simcoe approached the glass to his lips with evident distaste, but he paused at Lizzie’s coaxing tone. A look of speculative cunning slid across his face.

‘Miss Lowndes, you have conquered me. I shall take it–‘

‘Good!’

‘On _one_ condition.’ He cast a pointed glance at the bowl of cold water and rags. ‘I really _am_ somewhat feverish…’

It was on occasions like this that Lizzie realised Simcoe had all the subtle finesse of a child shrieking for sweets at a Christmas party. She scowled.

‘Take the dram _first_.’

‘What, and give you no reason to oblige me afterwards?’ Simcoe looked scornful.  ‘I am hardly _that_ stupid, Miss Lowndes-’

 ‘Oh, _Lieutenant_ _Simcoe_!’ Lizzie said, goaded beyond bearing. ‘Must _everything_ always be so difficult? Your bullying, sir, endears you to no-one. At all. It is _not_ a quality I admire in you.’

Simcoe’s mouth fell open a little, eyes widening briefly before surprise gave way to an expression of indignant outrage.

He snapped his mouth shut, two white dints appearing on either side of his nostrils.

‘You are greatly mistaken in your address, madam.’ He said coldly. ‘I do not _bully-‘_

‘As sure a case of self-deception as ever I’ve heard,’ Lizzie said sharply, unmoved. ‘You just tried to strong-arm me, lieutenant. Over a bowl of dirty water and some old dishcloths.’  She sat back on her heels, arms folded. ‘Lord, were you never taught to just _ask_?’

 ‘But…’ Simcoe was floundering helplessly in the deeper waters of common courtesy. His brow wrinkled in perplexity. ‘But… you will refuse.’

‘Gentlemen can _accept_ refusal.’

This was evidently a new concept for Simcoe. He digested this new piece of information, evidently dissatisfied, and put down the glass of quinine quite sharply.

‘But I do not _want_ you to refuse!’ he said, plaintively.

‘Oh please.’ Lizzie looked contemptuous. ‘You must do better than that, Lieutenant. Is that _truly_ your excuse? You simply don’t like the word ‘ _no?’_ ’

Simcoe pressed his lips together under the rebuke. But the quarrel had given him some energy; he propped himself up on one elbow, the better to argue his case.

‘There are moral considerations.’ He said stiffly, clearly thinking fast. ‘What if you refuse me, and I should _die_?’

‘Die!’ Elizabeth snorted. ‘Don’t be _absurd_ -‘

‘Hardly. My death will be on _your_ conscience, ma’am, when I die of a raging fever you could have alleviated – and all for want of a little… _compassion_.’

‘Compassion, is it?’ Lizzie said shortly. She picked up a rag, soaked it, and made a cursory dab at his forehead. The lieutenant could be uncomfortably over-familiar as it was; she didn’t like to encourage him more than she could help. ‘There! You’ve had your compassion for today.’

But granted, the circumstances were hardly usual. And despite his feeble posturing, the waxen tinge to Simcoe’s face made it evident how much he had actually suffered. She could almost still hear the terrible drumming of his hobnailed boots against the floor...

 ‘Continuous application cools the blood better,’ Simcoe said hastily, seeing a softening in her face.  He raised a hand languidly to his forehead, like a consumptive poet. ‘Kennock will say so...’

‘I’m sure.’ Lizzie said dubiously, dabbing a little less sharply at his temples. She wasn’t at all sure she was doing the right thing – but what choice did she have?

‘Drink your quinine.’

Simcoe threw his head back and sharply downed it in one swallow, before collapsing – a little dramatically – against the ticking pillow, eyes closed with all the contentment of a cat curled up before the fire.

Lizzie had the distinct suspicion she had just been played for a fool, like a tavern fiddle. But she _was_ responsible, at least until Kennock stepped back from his ale. And if it made him lie quiet, where was the harm?

Still. She couldn’t resist prodding at his overinflated self-opinion. Just a little, by way of vengeance.

‘Kennock says you’re a fool.’ She said, tartly. ‘He said if you’d taken a dram before the march, none of this would have happened-’

Simcoe’s eyes snapped open, glaring at the ceiling. ‘Kennock’ s a poltroon.’ He said irritably. ‘Night orders, and a forced march through Connecticut? There was no _time_...’

‘So you say.’ Lizzie paused. She was curious. ‘Was it successful? Your…business?’

‘Wasn’t even that. Nothing more than clearing out wasps nests,’ Simcoe said, lazily closing his eyes again. ‘We’d had word of rebel freebooters. They try and run their boats downriver, every once in a while. And they’re always trying to claw back a foot of the ground they’ve lost.’ He snorted. ‘Fools. There were only a  handful. Running third-rate gentleman’s fancies they’d stolen out of some port…’

‘Gentleman’s… fancies?’

‘Oh, the usual smuggler’s fare. Brandy, boxes of tea – anything they can get their hands on that rich men pay for. Dim-witted dolts; they didn’t even have a sentry on guard.’ There was something dangerously gleeful in Simcoe’s smile. ‘We made red work, that night...they tried to fight _back_.’

Lizzie flinched.

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘On our side? Not at all. It was a clean kill. No regiment casualties.’ Simcoe sounded almost dismissive of an action with no fallen. ‘Although one got away. Some bearded fellow in sailors slops-’

He finally noticed Lizzie looked less than enthralled. She swallowed, looking away.

‘Do I alarm you?’

‘Oh... oh, no.’

He’d said no _regiment_ casualties, hadn’t he _? Baker_ , Lizzie thought, with an effort. _Think of Baker. Not what was left of the smugglers dug into shallow graves deep in the Connecticut woods…_

She had forgotten, by common commerce with the cheerful fellows standing treat in the tavern, what an army really _did_. An army’s trade was violence. Easton. Wakefield – perhaps even the Major – they must have all had their share of ‘red work.’ Even Baker - Baker had probably made ‘red work’ in his time, too…

She shuddered slightly, despite herself.

When she next looked up, Simcoe was watching her face keenly, hunting for some clue in her expression.

 ‘You needn’t fear, Miss Lowndes,’ he said, an awkward note of consideration creeping in unawares. ‘Setauket _is_ poorly defended, I grant you. We wouldn't last long under attack by any truly well-organised force. But what rebels are left scampering about - well,  we soon see them off-‘

‘I’m not afraid of rebels,’ Lizzie said swiftly.

She shifted uncomfortably on her stool, fidgeting. It was a paltry sort of lie, and she knew it. Why not be honest? She quailed at the thought of violence and bloodshed as much as anyone else.

‘No. That’s not true.' she admitted. 'I _am_ afraid – but not in the way you suppose.’ She took a breath, before continuing, struggling to voice her thoughts. ‘I’m afraid of not _knowing_.’ She paused, afraid that she sounded a fool - but Simcoe didn’t say anything. He gave another pale lizard-blink - but that was all.

Lizzie found herself trying to explain.

‘People...people _lie_. To women. “ _You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that”_ or “ _Never mind this”._ Most men do. They think they’re shielding us.' Lizzie crossed her arms across her chest, scowling. 'I would rather _know_ the worst.'

'Even if it was terrible?' Simcoe looked interested.

' _Especially_ then.' Lizzie said stoutly.

That was something she realized she  actually did like about Lieutenant Simcoe. His faults were many and his charms few, but most officers would have lied unconvincingly and comfortingly about how safe Setauket was. Even fewer would have bothered to explain anything to a mere _woman_. Simcoe had told her something true; and she liked him better for it.

 ‘Well.’ Simcoe’s voice suddenly sounded a little strained. ‘Should you _need_ the protection of a gentleman in Setauket…at any time…’

Was that a faint flush of colour creeping up the lieutenant’s neck? His breathing had become ragged and uneven, his eyes shining over-bright.

‘You’re burning up again.’ Lizzie said, concerned. ‘Try not to agitate yourself, Lieutenant. Dr Kennock will return soon-’

‘– _Kennock_.’ Simcoe looked irritated. He struggled to sit upright. ‘What does _he_ have to do with the business?’ His hands plucked feverishly at a loose thread in the coarse grey horse-blanket. ‘You misunderstand me. I am offering you _protection_ …’

‘I thought you just said Setauket was better-defended than most?’ Lizzie said, nonplussed by his insistence.  ‘For the love of God sit _back_ , lieutenant. You’ll work yourself a mischief-‘

It took less effort than she thought. She had only moved one hand to his shoulder to ease him back against his pillows, but at her touch he went backwards like a child’s rag doll, mouth working convulsively at the corners.

Of course, any practiced nurse would have realised long since that Simcoe might still be weak, but he was not nearly as helpless as he pretended. He was quite steady, bar a faint trembling in one arm that betrayed a nervous excitement that had nothing to do with fever, and everything to do with Lizzie. Especially a gentle, solicitous Lizzie who touched him without hesitation and showed such tender concern. But Lizzie was not a practiced nurse – and the giddy rush of urgent responsibility had made her heedless of the impression she might give. She stared gravely down at her patient, forestalling further argument with another cold rag against his forehead.

Simcoe stared hazily up at her, his lean twist of countenance slowly smoothing into a drowsy calm.

‘That _does_ feel good.’ he murmured solemnly, watching her from under heavy eyelids. ‘Don’t stop...’

 ‘Well. Not until Kennock comes back.’ Lizzie said gently, before remembering herself. She held up an admonitory finger. ‘Ah-? What did I just say about _asking_?’

‘Hmm?’ Simcoe opened one electric-blue ye. Despite his best efforts, he was clearly sinking back into a doze.  ‘Oh.’ He looked vaguely abashed. ‘If you please, then?’

‘Better.’ Lizzie said grudgingly. ‘Just.’

She sighed. She never could grow entirely used to Simcoe’s mercurial manner.  He moved so easily from talking of “clean kills” (with less compunction than he would a rabbit) to being a sick, rather fretful child, wanting attention from his nurse. But he was natural; more natural than Lizzie had ever seen him before. And there was something infinitely sad about a man who was prepared to try and extort something as slight as damp rags and a little neutral kindness from her. It would have been a paltry thing to anyone else, but it clearly meant much more to _him_ …

And there was something oddly touching about his persistent pursuit of her _approval_. No-one, not even Pa, have ever really considered his daughter’s approval as something worth having. Simcoe chased after some indication of her goodwill as doggedly as a child chasing a butterfly.

The painful sense of pity tightening in her chest returned, just as the door creaked. 

* * *

 Kennock had returned, setting the shadows from the stable oil lamp dancing in the sudden draught. He gestured over his shoulder, indicating two men with a stretcher.

‘Asleep?’ he said, in a stage whisper.

‘What, with your hobnailed louts stomping about across the yard?’ Simcoe’s eyes were still closed, but his mouth now had a sarcastic twist to it. ‘You couldn’t ambush a blind pig, Kennock.’

‘Oh, he’s _definitely_ on the mend,’ the surgeon said with grim satisfaction. ‘I daresay it’ll be back to broken heads and snapped fingers from the ranks before long, eh? Although I can’t complain,’ he added conversationally to Lizzie. ‘If it weren’t for men like John, I daresay surgeons would be starving in the hedgerows. Keeps me in business, even here. Can you walk, sir?’ he added, loudly, as though Simcoe were hard of hearing. ‘Or must we truss you like a Christmas goose?’

‘Well, if you don’t need me…’ Lizzie said nervously, edging thankfully towards the door. It was dark outside already. How long had she _been_ here?  ‘I can leave the lieutenant to you?’

‘As soon as you like.’ Kennock spoke loudly, drowning out Simcoe’s incoherent sounds of protest. He glanced down approvingly at the empty quinine glass. ‘Much appreciated, Miss… Lowndes, is it? Very helpful.’ He grinned broadly to himself, as though at some private joke. ‘Shouldn’t need you again-‘

‘ _I hadn’t finished._ ’ There was a rising note of resentment in Simcoe’s voice. ‘If you don’t _mind_ , Doctor, I would be grateful for _any_ notice that Miss Lowndes would deign to bestow whilst I am indisposed-‘ he paused, meaningfully. ‘With a slight chill…’

Lizzie nodded, understanding his meaning. Better Joyce and his brother-officers snort at the notion of Simcoe retreating to his bed with a cold than finding out the real cause.

‘Yes. A slight chill.’ She agreed.

‘And – it would give me great pleasure if… that is, I would like it if you…’ Simcoe’s urbane courtesy seemed to be breaking down in the face of observers. He darted a glare at the Doctor – now cheerily whistling a fragment of the ‘Miller of Dee’ – and then leant forwards towards Lizzie, ignoring his audience.

‘I mean to say, I have learnt my lesson,’ he said seriously. ‘And I should count it a great favour if you would…visit me whilst I recuperate. You _can_ refuse.’ He added, grandly. ‘A gentleman _accepts_ refusal.’

 

Lizzie could have laughed aloud. To hear him parroting her words back to her like that, sententious as a college professor; well, it was funny beyond belief. She couldn’t help but smile.

But it would evidently hurt the lieutenant’s feelings if she _actually_ laughed – and she had to allow, he was attempting a touch of humility. It would be cruel to refuse, under the circumstances.

‘I think I can manage that, lieutenant,’ she said, echoing his own gravity. ‘And it will be much more agreeable to see you under improved circumstances – oh!’

Lizzie’s voice trailed into an incoherent squeak.

At a gesture from Kennock, the makeshift orderlies had moved forwards, into the narrow pool of light under the stable-lamp. One of them was a gangling, uneasy-looking youth with a crop of fair hair and a startled face. But the _other_ ; amiable, a little tired-looking in his dull red coat, was-

‘E-ensign Baker?’ Lizzie coloured despite herself. She unconsciously put a hand over her bodice, to keep the sound of her wildly beating heart still behind her stays. ‘I didn’t know that was _you_.’

‘I was in the tavern,’ Baker said briefly. ‘Kennock asked me. And I knew Henrik here –‘ he nodded at the nervous young man, ‘Doesn’t have much English. He’s a safe hand. Won’t talk.’

‘All the better for our purpose,’ Kennock said smartly. ‘And Baker’s a discreet fellow. Knows how to keep a secret.’

Lizzie glowed, exultant. ‘I _know_ he does,’ she said fervently. She kept darting her eyes timidly towards his face, half-daring him to meet them. If only he would look up…

 _Look at me._ Lizzie prayed inwardly, desperately trying to make him turn by an act of will alone. _Look in my direction. Give me some sort of sign …_

‘He’d _better_.’ Simcoe glowered ominously from his pallet. He had caught the direction of Lizzie’s shy sidelong glance at Baker, and a feral stink of antagonism now tainted the air. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I _said_ no regiment men, Kennock-‘

‘You can’t object to Baker, man! Nobody minds Baker,’ Dr Kennock said irritably, snapping his fingers . ‘There was no-one else I’d trust in there who’d keep their mouth shut.’

‘You think barrack-room gossips like Baker have a still tongue in their heads? You’re more fool than I thought-’

The Dutch boy had bent over to help him onto the stretcher. Simcoe kicked out, snarling.

‘Damn you!’ he said, furiously. ‘I’m not some mewling invalid, I can move my own damn _legs_ -‘

‘I’ll say goodnight, sirs.’ Lizzie said hastily. Simcoe’s bull-headed nature seemed to be returning with a vengeance – and she wasn’t sure her temper could stand the test if he took out his temper on Baker. She had nearly bitten her tongue in indignation as it was. ‘He’s best left to men-‘

Too late, the lieutenant realised his mistake. His face dropped into wide-eyed dismay.

‘ _Wait!_ I meant _-_ ‘

Lizzie hurried away, ignoring the yelp of frustration behind her.

‘See?’ She dimly heard Kennock say, as the stable door swung to. ‘You’re your own worst enemy, John-’

It was actually dark now. The lamps already lit in the stable yard. Lizzie had spent the whole of the day dealing with Simcoe and his malady rather than her painting, or her mending, or any of the half-dozen other things that needed to be done. She was tired beyond belief. There was an ache in her shoulders from spending so long with the head stooped, and pins and needles in her half-numb feet.

It had, on the whole, been a _very_ strange day.  

On the other hand… she didn’t feel like she’d wasted the day. It had been alarming, and at times certainly terrifying – but it wasn’t without its points of interest. Some odd sort of boundary had been crossed. Confidences had been exchanged. A gossamer thread of trust had been spun that had somehow hooked Lizzie a little closer to the lieutenant. The little she had seen behind the public personage of Lieutenant Simcoe rather piqued her curiosity.

She halted, looking back for a moment at the stables. Who was Greenhalgh? She wondered. What had _happened_ to him at school? Had the army been an escape, rather than a gentleman’s career? And what-

There probably won’t be poetry tonight, a small, dismal voice reminded her. Not if Baker’s tending him for the rest of the night.

Oh. Baker. Yes...

 


	13. The Go-Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lizzie learns a surprising secret, and the determined Mrs Strong has ideas...

 

_Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;_

_Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me._

_Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning;_

_Make not my glad cause cause of mourning._

George Peele, _Hot Sun, Cool Fire_

 

 

‘Lizzie?’

No hope of sneaking past to her own chamber. Anna was still up in her room – and despite her morning’s infirmity, she was as alert and as sharp-eared as ever. ‘I can _tell_ that’s you, Lizzie. I know the creak of my own stairs.’

Lizzie gave up the half-hearted attempt at secrecy. ‘You caught me.’

She admitted, as she slowly poked her head around the door.

Anna was sat up in a chair, her workbox open and a length of plain sewing in her hand. 

She looked much better. There was pink in her cheeks again – and clearly she had felt well enough to get out of bed and struggle into a faded dimity cotton wrapper. Perhaps it was just the contrast between the patient in the stable rather than the one in the bedchamber, but Anna looked as if she could have taken on the world. There was a warlike spark in her eye and an energy to her movements that had been seriously lacking that morning.

Although when she looked up, she spoke almost severely. ‘Where have you _been_ all day? I was about to send out Jordan looking for you-’

‘Why?’

 ‘Well, you didn’t return for supper, as you usually do! And a single woman out _alone_ -‘

‘I’m sorry, Anna.’ Lizzie said, embarrassed. She added brightly, ‘You know, Pa doesn’t normally worry when I’m gone-‘

‘Oh, _he_ doesn’t, does he?’ Anna snapped. ‘ _You_ can tell _him_ so when he returns from Whitehall, then. He was muttering something fierce when you weren’t to be found anywhere, and a dinner with _Master_ Magistrate to go to-‘

 

Lizzie’s stomach dropped in dismay. ‘He’s gone to _Whitehall_?!’ With the little drama of Lieutenant Simcoe to the fore, all thoughts of anything else had flown out of her head. ‘That was _tonight_?!’

Lizzie could have wailed aloud as she looked down at herself. Even if she dressed at the speed of lightning, there was no hope of catching up with Pa. Her skirts were covered in wisps of wet straw, her hemline muddy from splashes in the stable-yard .

She had been looking forward to the dinner. She had been curious about young, reputedly pretty Mrs Woodhull. If Pa played his cards right and behaved, there might just be another portrait commission for them. And Jenneke’s silk still hadn’t been worn…

‘…Oh.’ she said flatly, trying to swallow down her regret and disappointment. It was bitter, like Kennock’s draught of quinine, but she managed it. ‘Did he wait… long?’

Anna wasn’t blind. Her voice lost some of its edge on seeing Lizzie’s downcast expression.

‘A while.’ She said, relenting.

 

Anna was disappointed with Mr Lowndes, to tell the truth. He had scarcely blinked crossly for a few moments at not finding his daughter, before shrugging on his greatcoat. He was still in a black mood from his delirium tremens, if she was any judge (and Anna was: she had an expert’s eye where men and drink were concerned) but… nonetheless.

She had expected better, given how much work Lizzie put in on Mr Lowndes’ behalf.

‘Where _were_ you, anyway?’ she asked. ‘It’s not like you to be gone so long – and Miss DeJong swore blind that she hadn’t seen hide or hair of you today-‘

 ‘I was helping the regiment surgeon.’ Lizzie said quickly. ‘Doctor Kennock, you know? One of the men was… taken ill…’

She couldn’t help wondering, with some amusement, if the army doctor was _still_ in the stables, trying to manhandle a snarling Simcoe into some sort of order. Probably they were halfway back to barracks by now…

 ‘ _Kennock_?’ Anna stared. ‘How do you know Kennock?’

‘I didn’t until today.’ Lizzie grimaced. ‘He’s very blunt.’

 ‘Is he? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met the man.’ Anna’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not often in Setauket.  ’

‘He was today,’ Lizzie said, soberly. ‘With the regiment returned...’

That attracted Anna’s interest. She sat up sharply, her sewing falling from her hands. She’d left her stays loosened, Lizzie noticed. That was unusual, in neat Anna.  ‘They did? _When_?’

‘This morning,’ Lizzie said, surprised. ‘I thought you’d have seen them down below in the taproom –‘

‘Selah’s had me keep to my room.’ Anna said, scowling. ‘No way of _seeing_ anything. Ugh, and he wouldn’t tell me a thing yesterday! I _knew_ something was wrong.’ She murmured, under her breath. ‘I _knew_ it…’

Lizzie sat back, thinking. She considered what she knew of Anna and Selah Strong; keeping their heads down as far as Setauket was concerned, but of a most decidedly Patriot leaning.

And then there was Selah Strong the businessman; he had an _unusually_ well-stocked cellar for a provincial landlord. The regiment officers probably turned a blind eye to the source of his liquor, provided they could drink it, but…she couldn’t help but think back to some of what Simcoe had said about the army’s foray into Connecticut, and put two and two together.

And if _she_ could make the connection, others might.

 

‘Anna,’ she said urgently. ‘Does… does Mr Strong ever order _gentleman’s fancies_?’

Mrs Strong drew in a sharp breath. Her face coloured as though she had been slapped.

 ‘Where did you _hear_ about-?’

‘I didn’t. If anyone but you asks, I _didn’t._ ’ Lizzie said seriously. ‘But...I heard things.’ She gave a wavering, mirthless smile. ‘Sick men talk.’

Anna’s hand shot out, closed tightly around Lizzie’s wrist.

‘ _What_ things? Do they suspect Selah? Do they **know** -‘

‘No, no. Nothing like that. Only…’ Lizzie swallowed, recalling some of the nonchalantly callous phrases Simcoe had used. ‘Only I found out where the regiment went. They were sent out hard on the heels of some Connecticut smugglers. They’d had orders that they were trading here on Long Island under the army’s noses and…’

‘ _And_?’

Anna’s grip was growing painful. Lizzie lowered her eyes.

‘ _One_ of them got away, he said. But I don’t think the rest …’ she faltered. ‘They tried to fight _back_.’

Anna’s hand on her arm relaxed, although the frozen, stony expression of her face didn’t.

‘I’m – oh Anna, I’m _sorry_ …’

‘Don’t be.’ Mrs Strong retrieved her sewing and began stabbing savagely at a seam with the point of her needle. ‘ _You_ didn’t kill them. _They_ did, didn’t they? The _army_.’  There was a rising sob in Anna’s voice, but it was one of pure fury. ‘I daresay Selah’s money is lining the pockets of some fat Colonel now, eh? Instead of going where it was _meant.._.’

Lizzie made a strangled noise of neutral assent, her mouth suddenly dry. She hadn’t expected Anna to openly _avow_ that the Strongs were sending money to the Continentals. Suspecting –well, suspecting was one thing. Knowing for certain was a different, dangerous thing.

 

At last the cambric gave way under the point of Mrs Strong’s needle, with a nasty little ripping noise. Anna let out a smothered cry from between clenched teeth and threw her spoilt sewing to the floor, rising from her chair with clenched fists.

‘They were _boys_!’

‘Anna!’ Lizzie cursed herself for saying anything Horrified, she attempted a futile, soothing gesture that Anna brushed away like a bothersome fly.

‘No! _Let_ me feel it, Lizzie. I need to. Selah won’t have me _feel_ anything, thinks he’s _protecting_ me…’ Anna let out another harsh rasping sob.

‘They wer _e_ boys.’ she repeated, more quietly. ‘Local boys. I knew some of them from childhood, you know? So did Selah. Daft Nate Lewis – he had a sweetheart over at Frog’s Point. God knows what _she’ll_ do now. And Amos Mercer. Hot-heads, the pair of them, never _could_ back down in a fight.’ She sniffed, wiping her wet eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I think they took to it simply for the joy of the thing. Breaking rules. Just like mad Caleb Brewster, with that great birds nest of a beard…’

‘What?’ Lizzie looked up. ‘Beard? He had a beard?’

The word had jogged her memory.

_Some bearded fellow in sailor’s slops…_

Oh yes,’ Anna said distantly. ‘Grew it as soon as he could. He couldn’t abide his grandam chucking him under the chin. Said the bristles fended her off-’

‘The one who got away had a beard,’ Lizzie said consolingly. ‘Maybe it _was_ your friend. Maybe he got away –‘

Anna sniffed, wiping her nose. ‘Aye, leaving all his friends dead behind him? There’s small comfort to be had from that...’ Her voice was small.

‘But there’s hope, isn’t there?’ Lizzie said desperately. ‘Here’s to… hoping?’

‘You’re right.’ Anna attempted a pale, watery smile in her direction. ‘Here’s to hoping.’ She blew her nose on a handkerchief stowed in her sleeve.

‘There, now you know enough to hang the pair of us,’ she added, with a feeble attempt at humour. ‘Me and Selah both-‘

‘Well…’ Lizzie laughed, tensely. ‘I told you about it, didn’t I? I’d - I’d probably be hanging alongside you, feet in the air.’

She bent to pick up the crumpled cambric from the floor, more to avoid Anna’s gaze than anything else. There was a looking of wondering surmise in Mrs Strong’s eyes that suddenly made Lizzie feel as though she’d been terribly indiscreet. Something approaching _speculation_ …

‘Are you feeling better?’ she said, hastily.

‘Oh! Oh. That.’ Anna’s cheeks grew pink. ‘That’s… nothing to worry about. I suppose. I think it will pass-‘She looked curiously embarrassed. ‘I can’t say I know myself, but Abigail said-‘

For the first time, Lizzie actually looked down at the subject of Anna’s needlework. It was a very small, almost doll-sized shirt – which now had a ripped seam along one tiny sleeve…

‘ _Anna?!_ ’Lizzie gawped. Her voice rose in astonishment ‘Are you with-‘

_‘Shh!_ Keep your voice down _!’_

There was something funny. The intricacies of potential treason didn’t make Anna turn a hair – but apparently the mysteries of married womanhood sent her the colour of a beetroot in the face of Lizzie’s open-mouthed stare.

‘It’s still a little early to tell,’ she said shortly. ‘But- yes. Abigail thinks so. There’s signs it could be.’

Anna’s face didn’t exactly show the countenance of a happy mother-to-be. She looked, if anything, a little hesitant.

‘Isn’t that - good?’ Lizzie asked. Her only experience of expectant mothers was through their few neighbours in New York. She had been too little to remember much of her own mother. She knew that pregnancy wasn’t always a joyous occasion – but Anna and Selah didn’t have seven other mouths to feed like belaboured Mrs Cook in Fenchurch Lane.

‘I don’t… _know_.’ Anna’s hands crept self-consciously over her stomach, as though she were trying to hide it. ‘Selah will be happy. It’s what we wanted, a child. And if it’s a boy, well. The inn’s safe. And the farm. Were it any other time, I think I _should_ be happy, too...’ She sounded doubtful.

‘Haven’t you told him yet?’

‘What, now? And find myself cooped up at Strong Manor for the next seven months?!’ Anna snorted. ‘You’ve seen how it is when Selah thinks I’ve taken a head-cold. If I’m with child, he’ll treat me like I’m a china figure! I’ll scarce be allowed out in a cloak to take the air. Let alone help to run the inn. And he _needs_ help. ’

‘But he _cares_ -‘ Lizzie protested. ‘He _means_ to be kind-‘

‘You can be smothered with kindness, believe you me.’ Anna gave a pained half-smile. ‘Lesson to be learned here from me, Lizzie; when you come to courting…’ she paused. ‘There’s a difference between a man who’ll do what’s best, and a man who thinks he already _knows_ what’s best. And worse, doesn’t _listen_ –‘

She broke off, seeing the stunned expression on Lizzie’s face. ‘I’ll tell Selah when the time’s right.’ She said, firmly. ‘ **Not** before. And I’d ask you not to –‘

‘I don’t know anything.’ Lizzie said stoutly, rising decisively from her chair. ‘About anything. If anyone asks, I’ve been talking to you about remedies for fever this past half-hour.’

‘Fever? _That’s_ what the soldiers are come down with?’ Anna snorted, derisively. ‘Delicate little flowers, aren’t they?’

Lizzie looked down at her shoes. The image of Lieutenant Simcoe kicking at his stretcher-bearers rose unbidden to the front of her mind. She suppressed a grin.

‘I was thinking of going back,’ she said, airily. ‘To the infirmary. Doctor Kennock says he finds me useful...’

‘Does he?’ Anna’s eyebrows rose a fraction towards her hairline. ‘He’s promised, you know. Some girl he has an understanding with. Although there weren’t _many_ disappointed faces here in Setauket, I can tell you-’

‘I’m _actually_ helping him.’ Lizzie said pointedly. ‘I haven’t any interest in Doctor Kennock.’

_No._ A small, gleeful little voice said inside. _I’m already in love with a better man by far._

 

‘No?’ A quick-thinking, reckless look crept over Anna’s face. Something resolute hardened in her eye. ‘I... I wonder. Lizzie – if you could –‘

‘Yes?’

‘Keep your eyes and ears open whilst you’re there. For anything you might see and hear from the soldiers. They speak free enough when they’re sick, and if you can find out _more_...’

 ‘You want me to-‘Lizzie’s hand crept up nervously to her cap. ‘Anna, I don’t know...’

‘Please!’ Mrs Strong said urgently. ‘If Selah looks to be _suspected-’_ Anna’s hands crept up to her loosened stays again, cradling her belly. Whether by chance or calculation, it would have been hard to tell, but it gave Lizzie a smart stab of compassionate guilt.  ‘There’s _more_ than just ourselves to think about now. Please?’

Lizzie yielded.

‘All right,’ she said, at last. ‘You can depend on me.’

Anna’s hands briefly squeezed her own, warmly. ‘Thank you. You don’t know how much that means, truly you don’t.’ A curious look passed over her face. ‘Are you sure you and your father –‘

‘I told you, Pa’s on his own side. He doesn’t do politics.’ Lizzie said flatly, trying to forestall further conversation. She was now growing truly alarmed by the turn the conversation was taking. ‘And – Anna, neither do I, _really_. I just don’t want anyone I care for to get hurt. That’s _why_ I told you-’

 

‘Well.’ Anna looked a little disappointed. She patted Lizzie’s hand, and then moved away from her, turning her gaze back towards the window and the dark. ‘I don’t want anyone hurt either. But what _you_ want doesn’t matter in war, does it?’ Her lips thinned. ‘It’s _war_. People do get hurt.’

 

* * *

 

 

That worked _both_ ways, Lizzie thought silently, as she wandered back to her room. She _didn’t_ want Anna and Selah marched to prison or the gallows, but...but neither did she want some Continental storm of bullets to decimate the regiment on a lonely forest road. Granted, she couldn’t care tuppence about the likes of Corporal Easton, but Wakefield and Joyce were amiable enough in the general way of things. As for neat, primly turned-out Major Hewlett, he had been their most generous military commission yet. Lizzie was far too grateful for his stiff little kindnesses to want any harm to come to _him._

And of course, there was Simcoe. Her _other_ military commission.

The events of the day had sufficiently impressed upon Lizzie that whilst she might have a mild distaste for the lieutenant, she didn’t actually _hate_ him.  

It was probably just the fee talking, she decided, a little perplexed with herself . That, or over-tiredness.

There was the rage, _yes_ ; the mad dog was still there. But there was a susceptibility he kept hidden behind the patrician sneer and the ugly temper. Lizzie caught a glimpse of a curious creature beneath the cracked varnish of the gentleman and the bitter gall of the beast.

Not counting the impressive addition to their income he was making with the _extra_ twenty guineas, word of the unsavoury affair with Corporal Easton would at least protect Pa from any further swindling. Simcoe had _helped_ , in his own way.

You could call it chivalry, of a somewhat warped, peculiar sort.

She shrugged, discarding the thought. It was a strange state of affairs in itself, when even _Simcoe_ was someone she actually had some regard for, but – there it was.

 Of course, first and foremost in Lizzie’s concern for the army marched Ensign Baker, resplendent in red and gold, and glittering with all the imaginary heroism and knight-errantry Lizzie could bestow. He had in fact become _her_ Ensign Baker in the privacy of her head. Sometimes, even if she was very daring, he became ‘ _my dearest’_.

 Outside business, and the difficulties of managing Pa, the ensign was becoming close to the _only_ thought in Lizzie’s head; an escape into fantasy even more alluring than books of print. The very breezes seemed to sigh his name against her cheek now. The clip-clop of hooves in the stable-yard outside her window naturally fell into the soothing rhythm of _Ba-ker, Ba-ker_ against the cobblestones. Or sometimes she dreamed; of a thrilling elopement on horseback, rescue from brigands, or Levantine pirates...

 It was on a wave of such enticing visions that Lizzie hopefully edged crabwise towards the seat-cushion in the corner that evening as the inn grew quiet.

But there was a bitter disappointment in store for her. There was nothing but the bare wood of the seat frame. Her _own_ note was no longer there, true – but there was no answering crinkle of paper.

 

He had left no reply.

 

_And he had seen her!_ Lizzie raged, inwardly _,_ stomping back up to her room with a very ill grace. _He had seen her **look** at him!_

Lizzie had tried to put her whole heart and soul into that single admiring look. It should have been enough to set a thousand lovers alight with poetic passion.

Could Baker be angry with her? She wondered, fretfully. Why the abrupt silence? Had she been too harsh? She _had_ been a little admonitory in her verse. Perhaps... perhaps he had thought her cruel. After all, he’d been away risking his life in service of King and country. To return and find such a stark rejection of ardent feeling must have been something of a blow.

 

It would be painful to detail every step of Lizzie’s mental agony that night. She spoilt a sheaf of Selah’s Strong’s supply of foolscap trying to draft another reply, something she would never have done when in her senses. Paper was too precious to waste on words, after all. Talk was cheap. Sketches earned money.

 

But a fire had been lit in Lizzie’s head beneath her cap, and it could only be quenched with fervent outpourings of ink.

The first draft, written on a wave of remorse, took her well into the early hours of the morning with over six hours of painfully laborious rhyming. It was dreadfully forlorn, and very feebly rhymed. It all but described herself as a poor bereft orphan, and pathetically hinted at the idea she would die alone:

 

_‘...from true love forsook;_

_Beneath a weeping willow, by my swain mistook.’_

After much walking up and down in her chamber, Lizzie began to grow resentful that he hadn’t troubled to leave a reply. Perhaps he’d grown bored with her, and she’d driven him away for good. Maybe he didn’t _care_ any more?

The idea took root in Lizzie’s soul to such an extent that she seized another piece of paper.

There was a good deal of ink splashes, and angry tearstained smears on the second draft, which was accusatory, indignant, and full of border-line panic. She didn’t bother to rhyme it.

It was only when she took the time to read it and re-read it again - that she realised just how insane she sounded. She bowled the crumpled wad of paper under-arm into the feebly flickering grate, and tried again.

 

This time dawn was already palely glimmering on the horizon, and the servants were already stirring.

Lizzie was growing too tired from her long day and restless night to care very much about anything in particular. Her head felt like it was stuffed with lambs’ wool.

After staring blearily at the new page in front of her, she scrawled two simple lines before dropping her quill and collapsing into bed, not even bothering to do more than kick off her stockings.

It would do for now, she decided, exhaustedly. And if it didn’t, she could think of something else after... she...slept...

She was almost asleep before her head touched the pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

She woke late next morning. Almost – but not quite- as late as her father, who had returned from Whitehall in a state of genteel self-reproach, handkerchief clutched to his forehead. Mr Lowndes made a special point of covering his own failings with a generous helping of reproaches for everyone else, and that morning’s breakfast in the Strong parlour was no exception.

‘I don’t ask _much_ of you, Bessy,’ he said plaintively. ‘But I _do_ ask that you make something of an effort where our patrons are concerned-‘

Anna let her spoon fall with a sharp clang, a martial glint in her eye. Pa winced.

‘Madam, the _noise-‘_

She ignored him. ‘I think that’s a little _hard_ of you, sir,’ she said sharply. ‘Considering you waited barely _ten_ minutes for your daughter yourself-‘

‘I’m sorry, Pa.’ Lizzie said quickly. She had no wish to see Anna tussle with her father at the breakfast table. ‘I must have just missed you. How was Whitehall?’

Pa had been ruffled by his hostess’ harsh tone, and had evidently been preparing a pompous retort. But he subsided, reluctantly.

‘Whitehall was very well,’ he said, sullenly. ‘As it happens. A very convivial evening.’ he darted a superior glance at Anna, ‘It was what I call _proper_ society.’

The snub was entirely wasted on Mrs Strong. She gave a half-smile in the direction of Lizzie’s agonized face, and went on calmly pouring milk on her porridge.

Although your absence, dear daughter,’ Pa added, pointedly, ‘was _noted_.’

Lizzie glumly put down her toast. ‘It was?’

‘It was indeed! Mr Woodhull was saying only last night how good it would be for his daughter-in-law to have a little company and what a civilising effect female company was, in general, on gentlemen...’

Lizzie and Anna silently exchanged glances.

Given the rapidly cooling attention from the magistrate, Lizzie could easily imagine Mr Woodhull’s comment as a sharp stab at Pa’s “little weakness” rather than a general pleasantry. The glamour of Pa’s urbane gentility was evaporating like smoke in the cold Setauket air, where people saw things plainly. Anna’s look said as much.

_I shouldn’t have let him go out alone._ Lizzie thought, staring at a crumb on the tablecloth. _He’ll ruin things again, the way he did in Boston and New York and..._

‘And the portrait?’ Mrs Strong enquired sweetly. ‘How does the Major like his full-length?’

Pa tugged nervously at his neck-cloth. ‘The portrait?’ he said, evasively. ‘Oh, that. Hah. Yes. Got everything down. Bare bones, don’t you know. A painter requires time to build up his vision, you see. I’ve seen all I need to of –heh – the major. Pleasing fellow. And the horse, too, of course...’ He trailed off, eyeing his plate ‘Do you have such a thing as a rasher of bacon? I find I have no fancy for porridge...’

Anna turned faintly green, and pushed her plate away. Her sickness had abated a little, but it didn’t stand the thought of raw meat cooking in its own grease.

‘If you want it, ask the kitchen for it,’ she said shortly, and rose with a decisive rustle of her skirts that indicated the conversation was over.

 

Lizzie followed hard on her heels.

‘Please, don’t mind him - ’ she begged. ‘He’s out of sorts-‘

‘Mind!’ Anna snorted. ‘I don’t give a fillip for _him.’_ She paused. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Well. It can’t be easy, living with your father.’ Anna said carefully. ‘It must sometimes be a little... difficult?’

‘We do well enough,’ Lizzie said, indignant. ‘And he’s not himself when he’s working on -‘

She met Anna’s gaze and shrank, inwardly. It was kindly, but it was clear-eyed; interrogatory. And it didn’t allow for self-deception.

Her shoulders slumped.

‘I thought he’d do better here,’ she admitted, wearily. ‘I’ve been trying to keep the money close. But he’s been weaselling his fee out of the Major when I’m not there, I’m sure of it. And they _will_ offer him drink...’

‘And then he wears his welcome thin.’ Anna nodded. She looked concerned. ‘How long has he been taking to the bottle like that?’

‘Well, it didn’t affect his work before now. But Boston-’Lizzie shivered. ‘That _was_ bad. He was thrown out of the house by a sugar-merchant. We were all but run out of town by him. Swore he’d have the law on Pa for a no-good swindling... ’ Lizzie flickered an uneasy glance to the door. ‘And New York... well. We couldn’t stay. No money, and debts, you know? Mr Margate only paid a third of the fee before he found Pa out...’

In the end, it didn’t matter how good her father was with a paintbrush. No-one wanted a drunkard on their hearthrug.

She shrugged, trying to be matter-of-fact. To keep the painful truth small, crushed down deep somewhere where she couldn’t see it.

‘Past a point, there’s no stopping a man once he’s set on a course like that,’ Anna said, simply. ‘We keep an _inn_. I’ve seen it before.’

‘I try and keep him sober!’ Lizzie said fiercely, feebly attempting a defence of Pa’s honour. ‘I _try_ -‘

‘I _know_.’ Anna said, feelingly. ‘Everyone sees it, Liz. You’re a good daughter– ‘ she hesitated, stopped for a moment, and then began again as though the subject of Pa had never come up.

 ‘I was doing some thinking, last night.’ She said brightly.  ‘About telling Selah about the child. It will make him happy...’ Her hands crept to her stomach, gingerly. ‘Suppose – suppose I _did_ go back to Strong Manor. I mean, the inn’s all right whilst I’m here, but it’s a tavern. It can be a little dreary, being housebound. I would need company. Selah would be relieved, knowing I had female company if you would like to stay-‘

‘At your _house_?’

‘As a guest.’ Anna said, firmly. ‘You’re a _friend_. And,’ she added, with just a hint of guile, ‘We’re closer to Whitehall. If you wanted to just ‘drop in’ on your father, it’s a good deal easier...’

Lizzie opened her mouth. ‘Well-‘

‘And the barracks are only a short walk away. You can come and go to the infirmary as you please.’

Anna paused. ‘That reminds me, your Doctor Kennock was in here earlier this morning with the usual crowd. Looking for you, I expect.’

‘Usual crowd?’

‘Oh, you know. Easton, Baker. The usual suspects-‘

_‘Baker?!’_

Lizzie had given a little start. Anna looked at her curiously.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Are they still here? How soon did they leave?’ She asked, eagerly.

‘Oh, they weren’t in long. Why, where on earth are you going-‘

Lizzie had darted away down the passageway towards the taproom, breathless with sudden hope. Baker had been in there! Maybe – _maybe_ –

 

The tavern was still crowded from the morning rush. Lizzie had to discreetly use her feet and elbows to get through the press – and she used them regardless of the surprised yelps she left in her wake.

_Please,_ Lizzie prayed, _don’t let him be bored or angry with me. Let there be something, **this** time..._

 

The seat cushion looked oddly plumped up, as she approached. It wasn’t as she had left it.

Tucked neatly, just beneath, was a fat wad of three- no, _four_ sheets of paper, black with ink scrawl on every side. There was scarcely room for the usual address, which was squeezed untidily in a corner.

Although even the address was slightly different.

 

_“ To Athena, Upon Divine Panacea-“_

‘What’s that?’

Anna had followed her through the crowd. Lizzie hurriedly crumpled it in her fist, hiding it in her hanging pocket.

‘Oh... nothing,’ she said, falsely bright and airy. ‘Just a… supplies list. Pa orders his pigments from a special place in New York, and we’re running out of vermilion-‘

She avoided meeting Mrs Strong’s knowing smile, colouring furiously. ‘If you’ll _excuse_ me...’

She dashed up towards her room as though her skirts were on fire.

 

Anna ‘tsked’ slightly, re-adjusting the cushion tidily into its proper place.  ‘ _“Not interested”_ , my foot,” she murmured, half-smiling. ‘There’s a sweetheart in the mix...’

 

 

 


	14. Poetry and Pride

_Billet-doux_ _are constant Witnesses,_

_Substantial Records to Eternity;_

_Just Evidences, who the Truth confess,_

_On which the Lover safely may rely;_

_They’re serious Thoughts, digested and resolv’d;_

_And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv’d_ _._

                                                                Aphra Behn, _Love’s Witness_

 

 The wad of paper, Lizzie discovered (after breathlessly double-locking her door and settling down to read) was not one poem, but _two_. One, a brief slip of paper, the other a whole bundle of closely-written pages.

Thank _God_ , Lizzie prayed, that she hadn’t had the idiocy to send anything else. She cast a contemptuous look at the feeble scrawl she’d left on her writing desk. How desperate she’d been! Baker deserved better than _that_. She threw her own rejected effort into a corner, before returning, fingers quivering, to the stack of paper.

She _wanted_ to simply read it all; now, as fast as her eyes could soak in the meaning. But Lizzie knew by bitter experience the supply of verse was erratic at best. Who knew when she would receive another parcel like this one? It would be better to _savour_ it.

Reluctantly, she put down the larger packet and opened the small, single page

It was another torn-out scrap; this time, apparently from an accounts book. Lizzie could just make out ‘ _haversack: 3s 2d’_ on the back in a thin spidery clerks’ hand.

That was better, Lizzie decided, somewhat relieved. She had been somewhat uneasy at writing love poetry on pages from a _Bible_ ; even if it was just a blank flyleaf. It felt rather...wicked, somehow.  No-one, divine or otherwise, was going to care about some old receipt.

Except it was made infinitely, wonderfully more precious by the brief verse dashed across the totals line:

 

_Fear not, sweet Maid of peerless Charm,_

_That false Love surrender thee to Harm_

_Mars doth avow, with fealty true_

_He lives to serve none but you._

 

It was a _reply_.

Lizzie’s knees suddenly went weak as water. She sat down on the bed, breath catching in her throat, one finger gently stroking the words over and over; as though the paper could send the caress by some invisible magic. He hadn’t been offended by her guarded response, after all. He’d sent her _reassurance_. The rhyming was somewhat laboured, but what did that matter? It was the sentiment that counted - even if it was a little vague.

She paused to admire it, holding it up at arm’s length, before putting it down - to turn to the second bundle of papers.

 

 _This_ was no Bible fly-leaf or accounts book scribble. This was stiff cream-laid gentleman’s writing paper, with a satisfying substantial crackle as Lizzie unfolded it.

But if her poetic swain was taking more care with his materials, he was certainly becoming hastier in execution. The handwriting had deteriorated from careful gentleman’s copperplate into a demented jagged scribble. Indeed, Baker seemed to have even forgotten what straight lines were, for the writing lurched drunkenly up and down like a mountain range. The second poem had been written at break-neck speed, the pen recklessly gouging holes in the paper.

_To Athena, Upon Her ~~Sweet~~ Divine Panacea:_

_ Canto I: _

_A wearied heart, oft long-despised_

_May yet in Love’s coils be ~~surprised~~ surpriz’d,  _

_Embitt’red souls do yet delight_

_In softened glance from dark eyes bright_

_The spirit shrivels, becomes a husk, ~~~~_

_Starved of Eros’ perfuméd musk ~~rust dust~~._

 

Perfumed _musk_?

Lizzie looked rather askance at that. Clearly the poetry was limiting him a little; “Eros’ perfumed musk’ sounded rather like some dubious fragrance in a second-rate apothecary’s shop. Although it did sound much better than “rust” - or “dust”.

 But Lizzie was no harsh critic when it came to praise of herself – _especially_ in rhyme. He was simply trying to fit the metre, she decided, and read on, alight with pleasant interest.

 

_ Canto II: _

_~~Dearest Tend’rest~~ _ _Tender maiden, do not fear_

_To soft Love lend a ~~healing tea~~ r willing ear,_

_Asclepiad Arts thou hast to hand_

_~~A hundred~~ _ _Ten thousand virtues with thee stand,_

_Restless fever? Passion’s ~~lyre~~ fire!_

_~~Strums~~ _ _Quickens this breast on Longing’s pyre._

Lizzie was agreeably fluttered by the reference to “Asclepiad Arts.” She had been a little concerned at Baker stumbling across her acting as nursemaid to the lieutenant; after all, you could hardly _help_ but misconstrue it. Simcoe was by no means _subtle_ and the whole affair had looked rather – well, inappropriate.

 But Baker was above such plebeian things as misinterpretation. His poetic imagination seemed rather fired by her ‘noble sympathy’ – and somewhat... _ardently_ so. The next four cantos almost tripped over themselves in an agony of tortured delight at the thought of some future scenario where Lizzie was bestowing her ‘softest arts’ on a patient it was needless to mention.

 

Indeed, the thought itself made Lizzie sit back in a dreamy, unfocused haze. Perhaps - perhaps one of Anna’s smuggler ‘contacts’ might do her a kindness, and a (lightly) wounded Baker would require all the ‘Asclepiad Arts’ she could produce at short notice. She would be able to touch his hand perhaps even his cheek and forehead, too? Perhaps even a stolen kiss. Or two. Or three-

 

She shook herself awake from that particular daydream. There was still two pages left of verse. Two whole pages!

By the time she reached the tenth canto, some of Ensign Baker’s deathless verse began to seem a little repetitive. He was clearly dreadfully proud of a verse that began ‘To raise the iron spear of war,’ and went so far as to accidentally (or on purpose? Lizzie hardly knew) copy it out _twice,_ just in case she’d missed his genius the first time.

Elizabeth couldn’t actually imagine Baker (or indeed, any other military man) _actually_ occupying his time, “pouring forth the artless strain”

 

_‘...in sweet employ_

_of singing Delia, Nature’s joy ~~toy? boy~~._ ’

__

The only time any of the soldiers sang was in raucous tavern choruses of ‘Sweet Polly Oliver’ or bawdy ballads like ‘The Landlord’s Daughter ‘ – one of those rousing, rowdy songs flushed with cheer and alcohol. The idea of any of them, even Baker, mincing about like a pastoral shepherd with a beribboned crook...

But she was taking it all too _literally_ , Lizzie scolded herself inwardly. It was poetic license, wasn’t it? And the fact he had taken the time and effort to dash off a paean in praise of her charms; well.

It was just...

Occasionally, Lizzie heard a note of slight... _discord_ amongst the heavenly choirs that sang of immortal love in her ear. Something that jangled out of key when she looked at _actual_ Ensign Baker placidly chewing his way through a meat pasty, or  glumly darning a hole in his sleeve. It was almost difficult to believe he _could_ write like that to someone. He seemed so ordinary, on the surface.

Hidden depths, she told herself, firmly, whenever her doubts bobbed to the surface. Because it was _silly_ to think like that. It could _only_ be Baker.

Besides, wasn’t she the same? You could live ever so ordinary a life on the surface – but on paper you could dive with silver wings through a shimmering sea of words and come out shining. Her admirer clearly did, even if by the prosaic light of day he munched on gristly salt pork and only politely tipped his hat to her. By night he wrote anguished verse that dwelt on passionate feelings being crushed beneath (Lizzie hastily consulted her poetry) “horrid steel.”

That was another thing. The _words_ he used, in his poetry. Lizzie had heard Baker talk. From casual conversation, Lizzie would never have guessed he knew things like the secret names of Athena, or ‘Asclepiad arts’ – or even, at a pinch, the word “horrid.” He evidently concealed his knowledge of higher things. But even if the ensign sat up late into the night studying the classics – there still remained the puzzle of that “ _horrid_ steel.” It was a prim, rather miss-ish word, ‘horrid’. It sat upright like a spinster aunt in the middle of the verse, jogging elbows with poetic contraction and vague metaphors. Incongruous. Out of place.

It didn’t _belong_ in the poetry.

And it all became absurd when you pictured Baker actually _saying_ it.

He had probably read the word somewhere, and admired it. That was all. There was nothing in it, Lizzie told herself firmly. Besides, she rather _liked_ the little quirks in his writing. It had character – a certain impetuous flair she could recognise; and it awoke a half-admiring, half- laughing tenderness when she spotted some little error, or an odd dash towards unintelligible nonsense. There was more of that as the poem drew to a close; the slurred scribble revealed Baker had clearly been half-asleep over his work.

Imagine _that_ , Lizzie told herself, with a secret thrill. A half-conscious admirer desperately writing verse as though his life depended on it, despite having only vague control over his pen (and by extension, his train of thought).

And that had been _her_ last night, Lizzie realised, looking guiltily at her crumpled note in the corner.  They were becoming reflections of each other, she and Baker; shadowy copies that moved in tandem in a world of ink and paper.

She tried to ignore the troubling idea that followed on from that train of thought. Paper Baker – earnest, eloquent, poetic Baker, with his scrawled handwriting and raw pleading for love and recognition – was much more real to her than the _actual_ man she saw every-day in the Strong tavern. Perhaps because it was some meeting of... souls. Or something. She settled down to read the very last verse there was, her feet tapping nervously beneath her skirts.

 

_ Canto XXV _

__

_O Sweet Nymph, by nature Fair_

_With ~~marble~~ milk-whiteskin and ~~earth-brown~~ nut-brown ~~hare~~ hair_

_Thou know’st my heart will always ~~proof~~ prove_

_The shrine of pure ~~true~~ unchanging love!_

_And if by night thou does inspire_

_~~Tormenting~~ _ _Tumultuous dreams of soft desire_

_Conscience & ~~control~~ Honour hold the reins_

_To bridle Passion and subdue Pain ~~Strain~~_

_Some day? Or never? O! Shall I rest_

_Upon a true and ~~heaving? swelling~~ loving breast_

_With all ~~ardent Passion~~ my Anguish clear ~~professed~~ confess’d?_

_“Fond Youth”, the God of Love replies,_

_“Seek answer in ELIZA ’s eyes.”_

And there it was. Her name, in straggling capitals. Heavily underlined, until the ink ran out in a pathetic little trickle at the end of the page.

Lizzie sat back in her chair, resting her forehead against the armchair wing to cool the fever in her brain. Up until now she had been delighted by her treasure-trove of eloquent praise, but she had still half-believed there was some terrible misunderstanding somewhere. After all, she was _Lizzie_. Nothing extraordinary.

She _knew_ herself; slightly shabby, determined when it came to trifles and important things alike – a fluttering, vaguely ineffectual companion to Pa and his foibles. Occasionally she was “Betsy”, to Pa; but “Betsy” was a figure of obstruction and irritation when Mr Lowndes was crotchety; it was a nickname laden with mild reproach .She assumed that was what other people saw, too.

 

But... _here s_ he wasn’t “Athena”, or “Delia”, or any other flowery nymph’s name. There wasn’t even any attempt at the usual poetic pseudonym of “Mars” for the author, as there had been in the first poem. No, she was now “Eliza” who inspired – well, _love_.

Something had shifted in their relationship in between their last exchange, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it was...

 

There came a knock at the door. Lizzie leapt up as if her skirts were on fire, hastily stuffing her poetry beneath the seat-cushion.

‘Y-yes?’

‘Lizzie?’ Anna’s voice. ‘I don’t like to disturb you, but – well , you have callers.’

Was that a note of laughter in Anna’s voice?

‘Callers?’

‘Oh yes. _Callers_.’

 

“Callers”, turned out to a very ceremonious Jenneke DeJong sat in coquettish splendour in the tavern parlour, preening beneath her wide-brimmed hat and dressed in what was evidently her Sunday best. Lizzie hadn’t seen much of Jenneke of late. She had avoided her as she would a reproachful ghost. Lizzie’s guilty conscience couldn’t quite forget that she had _stolen_ poetry and love unawares from Miss DeJong. She wasn’t sorry she’d done it, but she knew it was _wrong_.

 

Jenneke, however, was chattering gleefully in Dutch to the tall, lanky boy Lizzie recognised as “Cousin Henrik” only breaking off when she finally caught sight of Lizzie and Anna. ‘Mrs Strong! Missen Lowndes!’ She dropped a rather ceremonious curtsey in their direction.

‘Jenneke?’ Anna said, evidently a little taken aback. ‘My, those are fine feathers, aren’t they?’

‘Damask,’ Jenneke said smugly. She rustled, a little ostentatiously, so the skirts dipped in the morning sunlight. The flowers on her hat quivered.  ‘ _Vader_ bought it for my trousseau. As I am soon to be a married woman soon, with a house of my own-‘

 _‘Married_?’

For one horrible moment, Lizzie’s world lurched sideways – but then she caught sight of cousin Henrik’s cheerful grin and grasped the situation.

‘Oh! You mean-‘

‘Yes!’ Jenneke tugged with a proud air of ownership on his sleeve. ‘Papa said yes, when Henrik asked him. I am promised to him. _Properly_.’ She added. ‘I am to have gowns and linen and tableware and bed-hangings in chintz and-‘

 When Jenneke began listing her future riches, she looked _very_ like her father. And poor Henrik looked rather more like he was a small afterthought on the list. Gowns and furniture and bed-linen and her own household seemed far more attractive to Miss DeJong than the husband. Who stood there like a lost dog waiting for his master, hat in hand.

Anna raised a hand to her mouth. No wonder she had been laughing, Lizzie thought ruefully. And fortunate Anna – as hostess, _she_ was able to lead Henrik into the sunlight and quiet of the taproom. Lizzie was squashed into a corner of the wooden settle in the parlour to make room for her visitor’s voluminous silk skirts, trying not to let her eyes glaze over as Jenneke prattled on.

‘-and even a little silver plate! And of course, there is to be a dinner and dancing beforehand. Vader has softened up a little, you know? He said I might have a matching pair of portraits from you, of me and Henrik.’

‘From my _father,_ you mean-‘

‘Well,’ Jenneke said vaguely, admiring her own face in the parlour looking-glass. ‘As long as it gets done by _one_ of you...’

That rather abrupt rejoinder cause Lizzie’s face to change. It was the casual tone you might use to a scullery-maid.

So. That was how it was.

 Lizzie had encountered it before in a dozen bored young ladies having their pictures painted or sketched in chalk; all coaxing friendship one minute, then polite, chilly distance the next. Once they had what they wanted from you, they discarded you.

 It couldn’t be helped, Lizzie knew. On one level, those fluttering middle-class misses were hardly aware they did it. It was just in their nature. They’d developed the knack over lessons in deportment and how to take tea, somewhere in the safe borders of their childhood. And really, what was she to them? Nothing but a tradesman’s daughter.

But it was always somewhat... disheartening. Lizzie hadn’t learned that easy method of simply shrugging off acquaintances. She had learned to be wary through life’s general knocks (you couldn’t really be trusting whilst looking after Pa) but she always assumed overtures of friendship to be sincere. That people _meant_ what they said. Jenneke, in her assumption of her place as a flourishing, soon-to-be-married woman, had dusted her friendship with Lizzie firmly into place - a rich Dutch lady’s reserved kindness to a grateful dependent.

 _Still. It could have been an invitation to the servants hall, rather than the actual dinner itself._ Lizzie thought wryly to herself. She forced her face into a grateful smile, murmuring the usual ‘much obliged to your kindness.’ Matching portraits, though! That would be _another_ commission. She had finished the pigs, and some of the country landscapes, but there was a growing list of portraits to finish “on behalf of Pa” in addition to Lieutenant Simcoe’s own private commission...

‘Ah- erm, Missen Lowndes?’ Jenneke was plucking nervously at the stitching on her gloves. ‘I... wanted to say... just, so you know-‘

Lizzie had a feeling she knew what was coming. She waited, hands folded stonily in her lap.

 _‘_ It would be better to – ah – forget, some of what – what we talked about. You know?’ Jenneke flushed pink. She wasn’t her father; she had enough feeling to realise there was something a little... unpleasant in moving Lizzie to the position of ‘slight inferior acquaintance’. ‘It wouldn’t _really_ do to have Henrik hear about it, and it was all-’ she flapped her hands, helplessly. ‘Foolishness. You know. That _silliness_ about Ensign-‘

‘I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.’ Lizzie said, coldly. ‘And I don’t care to.’

There appeared to be a lot of people who wanted Elizabeth’s silence upon things she’d seen or heard. Things she wasn’t _supposed_ to see or hear. Surgeon Kennock, Lieutenant Simcoe, Mrs Strong... and now Jenneke DeJong, kicking her one-time infatuation to one side like so much rubbish once a ‘marriageable prospect’ was on the horizon. And considered it a slight blot on her “reputation.”

 ‘You-you won’t tell?’ Jenneke said nervously, visibly relieved. ‘Oh, that’s good. I am inviting you to the dinner, so _that’s_ all right...’

Lizzie couldn’t _bear_ this last slap in the face from Jenneke. She _was_ like her father; attempting some sly bribe: a little ‘society’ in order to keep Lizzie sweet, and keep quiet about what she knew concerning poetry and ensigns...

She stood up quickly, trying to keep her face under control.

‘You thought I’d _tell_?’ Lizzie said incredulously. ‘And you thought you could pay me off? I would have preferred it if you’d placed some confidence in things like loyalty, or common... _decency_.  Or even,’ Lizzie added, acidly, ‘ _friendship_. But I see we are not likely to be _that_ for much longer.’

Jenneke gaped, her eyes round in her head. ‘I didn’t mean-‘ she stammered. ‘I- that is, I only meant-‘

‘I know _exactly_ what you _meant_. As a married lady of means, you will have no time for my acquaintance.’ Lizzie dipped a cold curtsey. ‘I wish you _joy_ , madam, but I fear I will be unable to take commissions for my father. Considering we are so _very_ beneath you-‘

Anger and indignation was carrying Lizzie along faster than thought. She heard herself almost at a distance, as though she were miles away. _What am I **doing**?_ She wondered. _I wouldn’t have **dared** to speak like this to a client a year ago. _ But she was so _tired_ of being humble, and obliging. She wasn’t going to dip her cap meekly under Jenneke’s condescension.

 

Miss DeJong got up with an agitated rustle of silk, edging backwards from Lizzie almost into the sooty fireplace. ‘I...I...’

Perhaps she thought Lizzie’s was going to spill her secret to Henrik that instant, for her eyes were round with fright. She was plucking miserably at her handkerchief as though trying to tear it to pieces in a panic, all her dreams of marriage suddenly up in the air. She’d realised, too late, how serious a mistake she’d made with her ‘confidante’. ‘I didn’t mean any _harm_ , truly, Missen Lowndes... _please_ -’

‘I don’t know what you are used to here in Setauket, Miss DeJong,’ Lizzie said icily. ‘But where I’m from, we don’t _buy_ silence with a slap of the palm like – like some pig-farmer on market day.’

It was too much for Jenneke. At her wit’s end, she burst into noisy, sobbing tears.

Thank the Lord for the heavy inn-parlour door, Lizzie thought, alarmed. She hadn’t meant to produce quite such an effect, and Jenneke was wailing loud enough to wake the dead.

‘I ... d-didn’t... m-mean it!’ she howled. ‘I - s-swear! Oh, p-please don’t be angry with me... I’m s-sorry, it was r-rude, and... ohhhh-‘

‘Yes, it _was_ rude.’ Lizzie said, relenting a little. ‘And I’d thought I was your _friend,_ Jenneke. You shouldn’t have thought you _needed_ to...oh, don’t cry. You’ll ruin your silk if you cry all over it. Here.’

Jenneke sniffled, picking up the dropped handkerchief Lizzie handed to her.

 ‘Vader... _V-vader_ always says people a-aren’t... _f-friends_ ,’ she ventured, dabbing fiercely at her blotchy eyes. ‘They’re just...j-just debtors waiting to call in f-favours...’

‘And you _believe_ that?’

‘Well...n-no. B-but I – I get the m-maids to do things for me that w-way...’Jenneke’s shoulders sagged. ‘S-sometimes, anyway. If I don’t give Gretchen w-what she wants she tells tales to Papa...’

‘Well-‘ Lizzie had never had the problem of having to manage a household of servants. It was very much a richer class of person’s problem. Still. Gretchen sounded like a conniving Corporal Easton in petticoats. ‘I’m not Gretchen,’ she said, firmly. ‘Understand? And if she wants anything else, like your damask, you just...wallop her with a broom-handle!’

Jenneke suppressed a small giggle in her handkerchief. ‘Y-you think?’

‘ _I_ would.’ Lizzie retorted. ‘And shall, if she gives you any more trouble.’ She looked at Jenneke, hard. ‘I won’t tell, Jenneke. And that’s because I _like_ you. When you don’t treat me like a beggar-girl selling heather at the door...’

Jenneke nodded. Her eyes had filled up again, but for a different reason. She dropped all her assumed gentility to huge Lizzie fiercely round the waist, careless of her prized new silk.

‘ _Danke je_ , Lizzie,’ she said quietly, somewhere over Lizzie’s shoulder. ‘ _Danke je_.’

 

‘How are you two ladies doing?’

Anna had stepped back in. Henrik was all smiles, slow to notice his fiancé’s eyes were red-rimmed and  her face blotchy – but Anna saw. She also saw Lizzie’s harassed face and flashing eyes. ‘Why, what’s the ma-?’

‘Nothing!’ Jenneke said breathlessly, jumping to her feet. ‘Nothing. We are all the best of friends and everything is good. Yes?’ she turned anxiously towards Lizzie, to check her response.

‘Yes. Yes, everything is good.’ Lizzie said, attempting a reassuring smile.

Jenneke squeezed her hand again before bustling out, tugging a bemused Henrik in her wake like a small rowboat following a galleon in full sail.

 

Anna waited until they were two stick figures on the horizon before she raised an eyebrow at Lizzie. ‘Quarrelling? What was _that_ all about? And don’t tell me ‘nothing, we are all the best of friends’-‘

Lizzie flushed to the roots of her hair beneath her cap.

‘Miss DeJong thought she would... _patronise_ me, now she’s to be married.’ She said, woodenly. ‘You know, being _only_ a lowly tradesman’s daughter-‘

‘That’s nothing _new_ amongst the old families. I’m still snubbed by half a dozen “worthy” families in the county since I became a “tradesman’s wife”.’ Anna shrugged. ‘I let them have their fancies.’

 ‘But – but Mr Strong could buy and sell them twice over...’ Lizzie said, wonderingly.

‘Exactly. Never mind the likes of Miss Jenneke – she might be well-off, but where brains are concerned, _you_ can certainly buy and sell her twice over.’ She paused. ‘Did you actually make her _cry_?’

‘I didn’t actually mean to –‘ Lizzie began, and then saw Anna’s smile. ‘You can laugh! I had to listen to her inventories of silver plate and china, down to the last teaspoon!’

‘I’m not laughing!’ Anna was chortling unrepentantly behind her hand.

‘She didn’t have to be _rude.’_ Lizzie said, half to herself. She was still a little ruffled by the encounter. In hindsight it was funny; but at the time she had felt out of control. Ladies were not supposed to react like _that._ As the subtle social manoeuvres of society ladies went, Lizzie had just committed the verbal equivalent of a fighter’s jab to the face.

At the heart of it all was Baker, of course. She mightn’t have been quite so offended by Jenneke if she hadn’t – God knows why! – felt the urge to defend Baker. He had become almost as personal to her as an aspersion cast on Pa. It touched her to the quick, somehow, to think anyone could dismiss a man who wrote poetry like that...

The excitement of the poetry combined with her scrape with Miss DeJong had made her feel restless with wasted energy– as though there was an itch under her skin she couldn’t scratch. 

What a tangle.

 ‘Ugh.’ She shook her head, sighing. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t think I’m fit for _proper_ company today-’

A thought occurred to her.If she wasn’t fit for _proper_ company, there was other company; of a kind. And despite his faults – well, Lizzie didn’t have to pretend to be proper whilst sketching or painting in textures and tints with Lieutenant Simcoe. 

‘I’ll get my portfolio,’ she said, casting a quick glance through the window towards the military encampment. ‘And my cloak.’

    


	15. Perplexity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Setauket becomes far more complicated than Lizzie ever dreamed...

_And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,_

_Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd;_

_In whose tender bosom my soul may confide,_

_Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide._

_From such a dear lover as here I describe,_

_No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe;_

_But till this astonishing creature I know,_

_As I long have liv'd chaste, I will keep myself so._

   Lady Mary Wortley Montagu: _The Lover: A Ballad_

 

 

The light morning chill had hardened into a nipping frost as Lizzie toiled her way up the hill. It snapped at her cheeks biting at her exposed fingers as she juggled her supplies – portfolio, sketchbook, pencils – and furtively, under her cloak, a basket.

 Selah Strong was not yet entirely convinced his wife was in good health.

As a result, the kitchen had been thrown into chaos by his demands for tempting dishes - to “coax her appetite.”

‘It won’t get any better once I tell him,’ Anna sighed, inspecting the damage in her kitchen. She looked dubiously at a great pudding-bowl of frumenty. Frumenty – well, frumenty was all very well in its place. But its place was generally amongst Christmas party merriment. It was a rich comfort food, to be eaten before a roaring fire, with cinnamon and saffron and honey in amongst the boiled wheat and the warm glow of alcohol.

 It was like offering plum-pudding to a seasick man adrift. Well-meaning was the best you could say about it.

‘What it’s costing him in spice, I don’t know – and see here!’ Anna poked at a decanter standing by. _Orange-flower_ water? What sort of extravagant -’

She took a deep breath and staggered back from the powerful scent of the bowl, looking a little sick. ‘There’s enough rum in there for a whole whale-boat,’ she croaked. ‘Lizzie - get rid of it, would you? Give it to Abigail, or feed it to the pigs, or something. Wait –no. That would be wasteful. And Selah would notice if the pigs are drunker than his customers…’

‘I can take it.’ Lizzie offered. ‘I’m going to the infirmary…what they don’t want I can finish.’

 Anna looked at her incredulously. ‘What? Take it to the sick redcoats?’ She snorted. ‘One pig is much the same as another, I suppose. Let them stuff themselves on it, if they like.’ She slapped the table, one eye on Selah’s small desk in the back room where he did his books. ‘I need to _think_.’

 

Anna was full of nervous energy this morning. Pacing up and down, making involuntary fists in her skirts. Preparing for battle, she thought to herself, wryly. Not that speaking to Selah was a battle – but it was an engagement to be conducted with tact and wifely diplomacy - not to mention speed. Anna couldn’t hide her condition from Selah forever. _He_ might not know the signs, but there were married men and women enough who could put two and two together in the tavern when they heard of Mrs Strong’s persistent bouts of morning sickness…Old men, matrons, younger farmers whose wives were still bearing fruit…

And Abe – Abraham -  was one of them, now. A young farmer. With his _own_ wife-

Anna flushed. She folded her arms over her stomach, as though keeping Selah’s child from overhearing her thoughts.

‘Go on, Lizzie,’ she said abruptly, raising a strained smile and casting a meaningful glance at the bar. Lunchtime trade was beginning to slacken. Selah would soon be free. ‘I’ll be fit for nothing till I’ve told him.’

 

Lizzie wisely did as she was told. It would have been a hard thing, seeing Selah’s bounding joy and pretending surprise - whilst watching the doubts Anna had voiced flicker behind her eyes. Knowing it was a pretence, put on for his sake.

 

But Lizzie now had frumenty. The smell of the stuff made her eyes water – but painting was hungry work, after all – and gifts were not to be sneezed at. Not with winter coming on.

 

The regiment infirmary had been a farmer’s buttery before it was ‘requisitioned’ ( a military word for ‘stolen’, according to Anna) but despite that, it had been well-chosen. Kennock knew his business.  It was clean, and airy – and there was a small stone-flagged room for cheese that had been turned into a kind of surgeon’s office. The butter paddles and buckets had made room for medical papers, rolls of bandages, and on the shelf where the cheese once stood there was a battered old skull Kennock kept turned towards the ward like a jauntily positioned medical orderly.

Lizzie didn’t see the doctor at first. Until what she’d thought was a pile of old blankets in the corner reared its head and looked at her.

 ‘Oh, it’s y _ou.’_ He croaked, opening one eye _._ ‘Miss…Lizzie, is it?’ He blinked. ‘I’d get up. but it’s too damned _cold_ for that.’

‘You don’t have a fire?’ Lizzie said, looking around.

‘Not here. There’s a brick stove built in for my charges, certainly- ’Kennock huddled further under his coat.  ‘But I can bear cold better than caprice. My –aha- _patient_ has driven me out. He’s had nothing but cranks and complaints since this morning, and not a thing can please him...’

Kennock gingerly extended a mittened hand to reach for his pen.

‘Can I be any use?’ Lizzie proffered the basket. ‘Mrs Strong packed-‘

‘Provisions?’ Kennock’s eyes lit up. ‘Lord, I’ve missed treating civilians! Soldiers don’t give you the time of day, let alone _food_ -’

 

Even Kennock was knocked back by the smell of the frumenty as he pulled back the cloth, although he inhaled appreciatively.

‘What’s this? Christmas cheer? We’re scarcely into November. ’

‘Mrs Strong didn’t want it.’ Lizzie said briefly. ‘Would it do? For invalids?’

‘Do? This should make a happy man out of any invalid! And any man in the pink of health, too.’ He cast a speculative look at the pudding bowl. ‘I wouldn’t give it to a man with a disordered stomach, mind –’

Kennock was a lean scrap of a man. Not much above young Mr Woodhull’s build, under his trailing layers of shabby blankets and greatcoat. He looked tired and pinched with cold. The slight suggestion of hollowness in his cheeks suggested that meagre army rations were all the doctor got; not hearty dinners at Whitehall. Kennock was another outsider slouching along in the ranks of His Majesty’s Army.

 

It only took a moment for Lizzie to take this in before she silently pushed the bowl towards the surgeon. She was prepared to make time for the exhausted Kennocks of this world.

‘You’d better sample it _first_ ,’ she said, meaningfully.

Kennock hesitated.

‘Well.’ He said gruffly. ‘I suppose – it is a large bowl, isn’t it?’ He reached for a battered tin plate that stood neglected on a shelf. ‘Let’s see if I can’t reduce the portion a little-‘

 

‘Kennock!’

There was no mistaking the impatient voice that floated through the infirmary door – or Kennock’s grimace. He rolled his eyes and pushed back his chair.

‘What is it _now_?’

‘Do you have a glass about you?’

‘A _what_? What are you, a court beauty? What the devil d’you need a mirror for?’

‘I want a shave, man!’

‘A-‘

Kennock’s jaw dropped. He leapt from his chair and darted through the door. ‘The man’s going to slit his own throat through damned _pride-_ ’ he muttered. ‘Wait here, Miss-’ shutting it abruptly behind him.

The door was a flimsy knotted latch thing, built for keeping out wandering cows. It hardly ensured privacy. Lizzie listened with growing amusement to the muffled argument through the wood.

_‘A **shave?**  You’ve hardly stopped the tremors yet, you bloody fool! Put the razor **down**!’_

‘ _That fool Walters doesn’t do it properly.’_

_‘Walters is the best orderly I **have.** He’s not your personal valet. And you should mind your manners, John. You have **company** -‘_

Lizzie didn’t wait to hear his response. Smothering a laugh, she pushed open the door.

‘Gentlemen?’ she said, innocently.

The surprise of her unexpected entrance caused them both to freeze. Lizzie would have _loved_ to sketch the brief living tableau they made as a caricature of ‘Gentility Surprised’. It would certainly have equalled any comic Hogarth print.

Simcoe was sat bolt upright in his lumpy wooden bed, trying to wrest his shaving equipment back from the surgeon. He had made some attempt to tie his neck-linen respectably about his throat despite the fact he was in his night-shirt, which looked a little incongruous. But to Lizzie’s absolute delight, he had forgone his wig. The sight of his closely-cropped bullet head bobbing about as he grabbed for the razor was more than a little absurd.

As was the look on his face when he caught sight of Lizzie. His eyes widened in shock.

Kennock took advantage of the moment to seize the razor and flannel as his patient shrank under the bedclothes with an embarrassed ‘ahem.’  

‘Miss Lowndes! I-’ Simcoe looked about him wildly, one hand creeping self-consciously to his naked scalp. ‘An – an unexpected - I – must apologise for being so ill-attired to receive-‘

‘You needn’t apologise, lieutenant,’ Lizzie said cheerily. She pulled up a stool from near the brick stove, patting the portfolio resting on her knee. ‘I thought we might resume some studies for your portrait, as you’re indisposed –‘

Kennock raised an eyebrow at the pair of them, evidently enjoying Simcoe’s discomfort no end. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He said, with a little mock-bow. ‘I’m sure the patient will _thoroughly_ enjoy it-‘

Even the very hinges on the door seemed to creak jeeringly as he left the room.

Initial panic over, the lieutenant recovered enough temper to glare after his physician – and enough wit to spy his wig. He made a thankful lunge for it, cramming the horsehair confection on his head.

‘Oh, don’t do that!’ Lizzie burst out, scarce able to help herself. As he’d leant over, the morning sunlight had caught the subtle burnt-copper gleam of his hair again, and all her artistic attention was awakened. ‘Please!’ She scrabbled feverishly for her brown sable pencil amongst her sketching things.

Simcoe stared at her blankly, one hand still clutching his military wig to his head.

‘Madam?’

‘Your _hair.’_ Lizzie said, lifting a piece of brown chalk between her fingertips. ‘I need it. It’s been throwing off my sketches abominably. I didn’t know what colour it _was._ And I was getting your flesh-tones all _wrong_ in consequence...’

There was an abrupt, rather chilly silence. Simcoe normally leaped head-first for any familiarity, regardless of manners -  but here he hesitated.

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Well, if I’m to get it right.’ Lizzie began. She stopped. ‘Why? You would prefer not?’

Simcoe said nothing. He looked away, not meeting her eyes.

 ‘Lieutenant...’ Lizzie said gently, trying to be tactful, ‘Do you not... _like_ your own hair?’

‘I was always taught,’ Simcoe said woodenly. ‘that there is little more contemptible on this earth than a red-headed man. So you will forgive me if I am reluctant to indulge your natural curiosi-‘

‘I know what it looks like,’ Lizzie said. ‘I saw it yesterday. Who taught you _that_?’

He shrugged.

‘It’s a common thing. You can find the sentiment anywhere. So-’ he clapped the wig more firmly to his head.

‘I know what _that_ is,’ Lizzie said, cocking her head on one side. ‘That’s foolish schoolboy logic.’

 ‘They were fools and charlatans,’ Simcoe said evenly. ‘To a man, even at Eton. I must agree with you there.’ He paused. It was only a moment, but Lizzie could feel him _hovering_ on the edge of some concession, his eyes flickering over her face.

Simcoe wasn’t used to sharing confidences – and today he had his guard up, his mental defences on full alert. Blatant coaxing would make him shut up like an oyster.

No, what he needed was trust. Something to _show_ him that he could still trust her.

Lizzie took a deep breath. ‘Alexander hated school,’ she said, looking down at her brushes. ‘Hated it like poison. The masters, the boys...they were all brutes.’ she gave a mirthless smile at her own vehemence.  ‘They were perhaps just unkind. But it was hard for him. So ...’ Lizzie felt she was explaining herself very ill indeed, but she pressed on, hoping he would understand. ‘I do _know_ what it can be like.’

‘Schooling is the fire in which gentlemen are forged,’ Simcoe said mechanically. It sounded like a quotation. ‘Or so my uncle said.’ He blinked at her, suddenly more attentive. ‘Who is _Alexander_?’

‘My brother.’

‘Oh.’ Simcoe’s shoulders visibly relaxed. He was still curious; she could feel it – but he didn’t ask more.  His fingers were plucking at the loose thread in the counterpane again, lost somewhere in his own thoughts. ‘You have a brother?’

‘Somewhere.’ Lizzie said. She tried to smile; it came out a sickly grimace. ‘I haven’t seen him in over two years now.’

This was too much. Enough. She sat back, trying to adopt her usual brisk business manner – anything to stop the memories coming back.

‘If you don’t wish it, Lieutenant, there’s no need. I can paint in-‘

‘No.’ Simcoe said at last. There was no reading his face; it was intent, but oddly expressionless. ‘I think you are... right.’ He didn’t say about what. Hair? Schoolmasters?  ‘And I should not like the portrait to be... inaccurate, in any form.’

 He pulled the wig from his head, looking down at it in slight embarrassment. ‘It wants curling.’ He remarked to no-one in particular. ‘If I trusted that poltroon Walters-‘

Lizzie looked her fill. For once, Simcoe didn’t try to outrival her stare. He looked down under her scrutiny. ‘They were wrong,’ she said at last, after a long look. ‘It’s not red. It’s auburn.’

‘It’s red enough.’ Simcoe said distantly.

‘I know my colours, sir. I’m an artist. And I say it was spite and jealousy, if anything.’ Lizzie took another assessing look. ‘Why, I knew sitters in Boston who would give a thousand pounds for a head of hair like that for Pa to paint – let alone hide it beneath a wig...’

The ghost of a smile flitted over the lieutenant’s lips.

‘Were they bald?’

‘Not as far as I could tell.’

‘Ah. Some comfort, then.’ Simcoe stared into the middle distance, as though taking a distant view of his past. ‘They used to call me a Judas.’

‘What?’

‘A Judas,’ Simcoe repeated distinctly. ‘There was a painting, you see, in the school chapel. And the Judas had red hair. So you see-‘ he gestured ironically to his cropped scalp, ‘I avoid that, at least, in the Army. Though I would make them repent it soon enough now. _’_ He added, tranquilly. ‘I possess greater abilities of... correction.’

Considering the stories about Lieutenant McCarthy, Lizzie didn’t doubt it. But she couldn’t help but think of yesterday – and Simcoe, his back against the wall.

_I’ll get you, Greenhalgh. If it’s the last thing I do. I’ll get you..._

‘And then?’ she found herself asking, her face grown anxious. It felt important, somehow. To _know_. ‘Did – did they repent it then?’

The Lieutenant’s face acquired a cold, pinched look. There was some grim satisfaction in it - but it was an acrid, desolate kind of triumph.

‘Oh yes.’ He laughed, cheerlessly. ‘At the last. I do believe they _did_.’

Elizabeth didn’t say any more. She glanced down at her paper, embarrassed that she had led Simcoe’s recollection down so dark a path. He looked half-savage once more; an ugly snarl of distant ferocity.

She put out a hand on the coverlet.

‘Good,’ she said, simply. For want of anything better to say, really, but it made the lieutenant look up. He came back to the here and now, blinking stupidly at her outstretched hand on the coverlet as though to say ‘what is that?’

 Simcoe wasn’t used to sympathy. Perhaps he thought it was condescending pity on her part. She dropped her eyes, turning her attention to the smooth page in front of her.

‘Well then, Lieutenant. If you don’t mind – could you look to the left, if you please?’

Simcoe’s head turned mechanically on command.

 Artists don’t look at their subjects _quite_ like other people. In one way, the scrutiny is almost unbearable, for a model, because they seem to see everything. Under such close attention, it feels like not only the face and features are being examined, but the soul is being turned this way and that, picked at. Tested, for flaws.

Of course, this isn’t true. Artists focus so much on the small details of their pencil (The sharp curve of a jawline, for example. The lines of a forehead. The faint brush of eyebrow) that the model as a whole is almost unimportant. They sink into a creator’s dreamland, where there is nothing but the thing growing under your hands - and the thing you are looking at, of course.

But the subjects can misbehave.  Especially when trying to sketch an outward glance, and its eyes sidle furtively towards your own.

 ‘I can’t sketch you if you keep craning your neck like that.’ Lizzie said, looking up from the work on her knee.

‘I want to see.’

‘Lieutenant-‘Lizzie sighed, rubbing her forehead and leaving a smudge of red chalk. ‘I have only just _started_. There is very _little_ to see-‘

‘Yes but...Show me.’ He said, trying to get a better view. ‘I want to see _how_ you do it.’

‘Pencil. Chalk. Paper.’ Lizzie moved her stool sideways, so he could see a little better. ‘And I draw what I see.’

She began to trace the outline of a face. ‘It doesn’t always work how I like, of course. The eye can see, but sometimes the hand isn’t quite up to it...’

‘I find that hard to believe in your case, madam.’ Simcoe seemed transfixed by the pencil lines growing on the page.

‘Was that a compliment?’ Lizzie pulled a face. ‘Thank you.  Though you’d be surprised at some of the poor stuff I’ve turned out. But I practice. Every day.’

‘Like military drill, I suppose.’ The lieutenant was still watching Lizzie’s fingers. ‘You school yourself to it.’ He sounded a little wistful. ‘It is soothing. To look at. And it is a remarkable thing, the act of creation...’

Lizzie remembered the eyes on her back, that day at the docks. It had never occurred to her that Simcoe was capable of such simple human delight. She remembered it herself from when she was small, propped up liked a doll in Pa’s studio as he worked. It had been like magic, the paint turning into shapes and colours. Faces. People.

‘It can sometimes be frustrating. When it doesn’t turn out like the picture in your head,’ she said, still sketching quickly. She began to shade in a contour with quick, sharp little motions of her pencil. ‘But there’s always the chance to improve.’ She looked up at Simcoe’s fascinated gaze and smiled. ‘And if worst comes to worst, it makes good kindling. Could you pass me that pencil? Thank you.’

Simcoe obliged. He examined her leather roll of pencils and chalk–stubs with unabashed interest.

‘They want sharpening.’ He said, looking over the small knife Lizzie kept for mending her pencils. It was scarcely bigger than a toothpick, and looked like a child’s toy.

‘They don’t all need to be sharp.’ Lizzie said, looking up briefly. ‘I need different textures. But, if you’d like to help... here – these lead ones need fixing.’ She said encouragingly. ‘If I can trust you with the knife?’

‘With _this_?’ Simcoe twiddled it mockingly between finger and thumb, before picking up a lead pencil and falling to work. But he was pleased at the invitation, she could tell.  He was “helping.”

They carried on in amiable silence, interrupted only by the scratch of his knife and the soft brush of Lizzie’s pencil against the page.  

 ‘Well, it cuts! I’m surprised.’

‘Are you mocking my tools, sir?’ Lizzie demanded, jestingly. ‘I don’t need a cavalry sabre. Small and simple does the trick.’

‘It’s not bad. But you could use a better knife.’ Simcoe brushed the flakes of lead to the floor, concentrating on scraping the wood in a single unbroken curlicue.

‘I use Pa’s old hand-me-downs. They’ve often seen better days.’

The lieutenant’s lips thinned, visibly. ‘Hoards the best, does he?’

‘He’s the portrait-painter, remember?’ Lizzie said evenly. ‘I’m the prentice.’

 ‘That isn’t what I see.’ Simcoe’s voice was flat. ‘I see a drink-sodden leech, feeding on an old reputation and a mountebank’s skill in self-deception.’

‘That’s _not_ -‘

 ‘Polite? No, it isn’t.’ Simcoe eyed the pencil point critically, and then picked up another. ‘But it is true, isn’t it? You paint, he reaps the praise - and the guineas and the ‘little after-dinner accommodations.’

‘It’s...complicated.’ Lizzie said, unwillingly. She didn’t want to be drawn into any further admission about Pa’s “artistic muse”.

‘I know,’ Simcoe was watching her expression, narrowly. ‘I understand you _must_ have love and loyalty towards a father; it is expected. But there can hardly be respect for a specimen such as _that_. Which is why I imagine your brother ran away.. _._ ’

 

There was a small gulp of shocked breath from the artist.

 ‘How do _you_ know that?’ Lizzie demanded. ‘I’ve never told anyone that! Never. No-one knows about Alex and why he-’

The lieutenant shrugged.

‘It’s what any boy of spirit would have done.’ He daintily blew the dust from the newly sharpened point and returned the pencil to the roll. ‘Given such a father.’

 

 It was the first time Lizzie had ever heard anyone actually praise Alexander for leaving. People generally sided with her father, and talked about ungrateful children; as though they were runaway servants you could simply take by the scruff of the neck.

 

She half-wanted to say something in her father’s defence; to say Pa didn’t deserve it – but then that meant belittling Alex. Lizzie couldn’t do that. Ever.

 ‘Pa won’t let me talk about him,’ she said. It hurt, speaking about it; but it eased something tight and painful in her chest. Trust, she thought. It worked both ways. She carried on.

 ‘Pa made him painting apprentice, and Alex hated it - like he hated everything else Pa _made_ him do. He’d wanted to be a sailor when he was small...’

‘He disliked painting?’

‘He wasn’t very good at it. And Pa scolded when he got things wrong, so he got jumpy.’ Lizzie shrugged. ‘But Pa kept him doing it.’

 

Alex’s real talent had been working with horses. He _liked_ horses. They were gentle four-legged giants with velvet mouths and liquid, eloquent eyes; who didn’t curse, or pawn their paintbrushes for drinking money, or nag about his terrible brush technique. After school had failed him, he used to run about with the rough and tumble stable-lads. And by holding horses for a few pence and watching the ostlers and blacksmiths, Alexander had _learned_.

He got harder from knocking about with stable-boys; he developed a jaunty swagger that he hadn’t had before. His old adversaries would have probably slunk away from the new Alex – the one with a blackthorn cudgel and a sharp eye ; ready for trouble. He was anything but the reputable artist apprentice Pa had wanted.

But he was _happy._

‘S’better than painting for me, Liz,’ he’d said one day, contentment flaring in his eyes as he brushed down an old grey mare. ‘It’ll _always_ be better than painting for me.’

And Lizzie had wanted Alex to be happy. She’d began to cover for him; treating the canvases, mixing colours, buying pigments – all the duties of an apprentice Alex left unfinished or ignored altogether. She’d only been a gawky eleven-year old when she started, all elbows and cut-down dresses.

And Pa hadn’t said a word. Lizzie had assumed she was keeping her brother’s secret.

 

‘Your father knew, of course.’ Simcoe said with certainty.

‘Yes. He did. But Alex wasn’t making much headway. I- I suppose he just wanted to pass on his skills to someone who cared.’

  ‘I have my own views on the subject.’ Simcoe slid out another pencil from the roll. ‘But I think we must agree to disagree.’

‘Yes, we’d better.’ Lizzie said firmly. ‘Don’t move. Keep your hands as they are.’

She paused, mid-sketch. ‘I was happy too, you know. It wasn’t just protecting Alex. I was _allowed_ to do something I was good at for once. It was...freedom.’

 

Alex wasn’t. Of course, it wasn’t a _gentleman’s_ talent, his way with horses. It was a grubby, common trade; working with blacksmiths and straw. “Up to his knees in horseshit”, Pa had called it. But he didn’t object to the money coming in, until Alex began objecting to the way his father spent it...

‘Ah. Hence the quarrel.’

‘It was _awful_ ,’ Lizzie said quietly. Her face looked pinched and small, as though she was holding in something. ‘Pa only got paid half what he’d been promised on a piece, so he was in a foul mood  that day; and then Alex saunters in, saying he’s met some friends who’ve found him _real_ work...’

‘Which was?’

‘Oh, we never found out what. Pa lost his temper, called him a dirty horse-boy and a sponging wastrel. And then Alex turns round and says-‘

 

“ _You! To talk about sponging! You’re nothing but a drunken old libertine who can’t even hold a paintbrush anymore!’ Alex had hunched over, hands held out in a cruel mimicry of Pa’s shaking fingers. ‘You’re slipping, old man. And you know it, that’s why you just - suck the life out of anyone who’s stupid enough to care about you. You did it to Mother-‘_

_Pa had been white with rage. ‘You dare bring your mother into this?’_

_‘Alex,_ **don’t-‘**

_‘Why do you think we don’t have grandparents, Lizzie? **They** saw right through him. They threw him out,’ Alex had been merciless, dancing in the light of his burning bridges. ‘He’s always been an old fraud. He as good as killed Mother –‘ His eyes sidled angrily towards his father, trying to provoke something, **anything** . ‘And you’ll do it to Liz, too...’_

_Pa slapped Alex hard across the face_

_Lizzie had made a small hopeless noise. It was like the squeak of a mouse being trodden on._

_‘I’m done.’ Pa said, breathing hard. ’I’m done_ _trying to reason with this lunatic-‘_

_‘And I’m done with **you** ,’ Alex had looked horribly calm. ‘For good.’_

_‘Alex-‘_

_‘Out.’ Pa had raised a  shaking finger towards the door._

_‘Liz –‘ Alex had looked towards her. ‘I’ll come back for you, I swear. Once I’ve made something of myself-‘_

_‘ **Out!’**_

_‘I won’t let him wear you out too –‘_

_‘ **OUT!’**_

****

That had been the last glimpse Lizzie had of her brother – a lanky, angry figure running blindly out of the inn backwards into the street, all mutinous eyes and set face.

Pa had thought his errant son would be back in a few days –sulking, no doubt, but grudgingly penitent.  Life would carry on.

He’d been wrong.

They’d waited – waited longer than they normally would after a business venture of Pa’s had gone sour. Waited long enough that the duns began rapping on the door. Pa could only sidle out at night in a greatcoat muffling his face so they wouldn’t recognise him. But Alex hadn’t come back. And after a while, they’d simply stopped waiting.

 

* * *

 

‘Hmm.’ Simcoe seemed to be pondering the question of Alexander Lowndes with vague intellectual interest, as a purely theoretical man-hunt. ‘Did you ever think to ask any of his associates where he might be?’

‘”Associates?” ‘ Lizzie repeated, bemused. ‘Alex didn’t have “associates”. He had a few friends in the hostelry and the odd horse-fancier who hired him out for the season.’ She paused, before resuming her fierce pencil –strokes again, as though to hide her feelings. _‘I_ asked. Pa couldn’t. One of the stable-hands said they’d seen him last heading north following the Hudson river, but– ’

‘Those are vague directions, at best. Quite.’ Simcoe examined the pencil lead. ‘If I had to hazard a guess,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I’d say your brother _may_ have gravitated towards the army.’

‘The army?’ That was a new thought. ‘Why the army? Alex wasn’t really a fighter...’

‘Horses were your brother’s specialty, yes? Well, look around.’  Simcoe made an expansive gesture. ‘The army’s the largest buyer in horseflesh right now. Cavalrymen take whatever they can find. And they’ll be in need of men who can see to them. Nowhere better, for a keen boy on the run.’ Simcoe’s eyes were watching her carefully. ‘If he _is_ with the army – well. I have my methods. I could find out for you. If you like.’

 ‘He’s probably dead.’ Lizzie voiced a fear she’d never spoken. ‘Or run away to sea. He liked the sea.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Thank you, but it’s – I mean, I find it is best - not to hope for anything. That way-’

‘-You can’t be disappointed.’ Simcoe finished her sentence for her. ‘I understand.’

 It was a cruel trick of fate that had given the lieutenant that delicately-pitched, mincing voice. Even when he was at his most earnest, he sounded affected, and more than a little insincere.

In the early days, Lizzie had never been sure if he was simply laughing up his sleeve at everyone.

But she had learned to read him a little better since then. He meant what he said.  And she felt, strangely enough, that it was true – he _did_ understand.

 She covered her embarrassment by pretending to blow the chalk dust from the page.

‘There!’ she said proudly. ‘It’s just a rough study, but I think you look rather well there, Lieutenant. What do you think?’

 From the shoulders up, a hastily sketched John Graves Simcoe looked out of the page, one hand still curled as though he had just laid down a quill.

Lizzie rather liked the expression she had managed to pin to the paper; he looked as if he might speak to the viewer. Engaging, but with no tendency to alarm – and only a slight hint of pride, rather than chilling hauteur. There was just a hint of interest sketched in behind the lowered lids and sweep of eyelashes to cheek.

 Simcoe examined it. Warily, from the ruffled cuffs of his pencil-self to the lightly-sketched-in shape of his scalp, and then lightly traced the shape of his own face with a fingertip, careful not to smudge the chalk.

‘Well?’ Lizzie said, waiting for some response. Then, a fraction more anxiously. ‘You do not think the likeness good?’

‘Good?’ Simcoe repeated, vaguely. He inspected the paper again. ‘It...speaks to me. I am not sure _how_...’ He trailed off, looking faintly stricken. He wetted his lips, and tried again.

He tapped the page. ‘The expression, _here_ –‘

‘It’s just a quick study.’ Lizzie said hurriedly, thinking he didn’t like it. ‘If you prefer I can make it more formal, for the painting. But it’s important to capture a few expressions first. Here –‘ Lizzie reached out to take the sketch back. ‘I can start again...’

‘No! Don’t do that.’  Simcoe jerked the paper out of reach, jealously possessive of his portrait. ‘It is intriguing.’ He paused, evidently moved. ‘I can’t describe it. It’s simply lines on paper, but it is ...more than that, at the same time.’

Lizzie was gratified by the impression she’d made. She’d evidently chosen well, making her subject more thoughtful than martial; it had surprised and pleased him better than all the artificial ‘proud officer’ postures in the world. Being painted as a ‘triumphant conqueror’ might feed his vanity; but Lizzie felt she needed to open the lieutenant’s mind to other possibilities. The quieter, thoughtful Simcoe on the page had made him ponder.

 ‘I like it,’ he said at last, exhausted by his attempt to describe it. ‘I like it very much.’

 ‘That’s all an artist ever wants to hear.’ Lizzie said, smiling. She tucked a tendril of errant hair behind her ear, and moved to pick up her pencil. ‘I like your hands best. They turned out very well.’

 Lizzie had taken particular note of the lieutenant’s hands. He was delicate enough in his movements, but they were very much a soldiers hands - large, capable hands with square-cut fingers; dusted with freckles and scuffed, hardened knuckles. The skin was pitted with tell-tale tiny gunpowder burns that never came out. Any man who had ever handled a firearm had them, Lizzie had noticed – from gentlemen all the way down to farmers and the odd furtive poacher.

 Of course, languid, tapering gentleman’s fingers were in style at present. That was why so many fashionable portraits included gloves. But Lizzie hadn’t felt they were needed. They added to the suggestion of power that was so necessary to the man.

 Simcoe’s gaze flickered down to his hands for an instant, showing the unabashed delight of a child praised for good behaviour.

‘Here,’ he offered. He held out both hands; palm-up, as though Lizzie was inspecting them for cleanliness. ‘You can look at them, if you like. For the painting.’

They were nearly twice as broad across the palm as she weighed them in her own, feeling a little foolish at the marked contrast. Her fingers seemed spindly and insubstantial compared to his own.

 By offering his hands to her, he had coaxed her closer, like netting a bird with dropped crumbs – and like a silly, fluttering bird, Lizzie hovered, uncertain.

‘You’re still fevered,’ she remarked, for want of something to say. She felt a little flustered, although she couldn’t quite reason _why_. ‘Your skin is hot.’

‘Is it? I hardly noticed.’ Simcoe barely even looked up. He was too intent on what seemed to be the business of the day: cradling Lizzie’s fingers in his own. ‘It should settle, in a day or so.’

Lizzie wasn’t sure how _that_ had happened. But there it was: the lieutenant, holding her hand and absently investigating the palm of her hand with one finger as though it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

She ought to protest. Or something.

 But… she couldn’t _bring_ herself to protest. The warmth of his hands was comforting; and Simcoe was careful - careful not to alarm her by moving too quickly, and careful not to undo his streak of good-fortune . He traced the outline of her raw knuckles and chalk-smudged hands the same way he had touched the sketch; hesitant, but with a strange air of absorption.

‘Your hands…’ he murmured. Lizzie’s fingers fluttered, for a moment, and then grew still. ‘I could never grow tired of watching your hands…’

He mused for a moment, feeling perhaps how weightless they were compared to his own - and then delicately followed the pink outline of Lizzie’s palm with a fingertip, down to her wrist where the veins showed translucent through the skin…

 _Why_ could Lizzie not furnish some stinging reproof? _Why_ was she trembling? Her stomach clenched as though she were afraid, something rising like a trapped bubble inside her chest. It made her dizzy. Her head felt as if it were filled with nothing but lambs-wool and fog.  She opened her mouth to say something indignant –

And said nothing. It was only a simple touch of the hand, wasn’t it? She did as much handing coins to tradesmen, didn’t she? It couldn’t be so _very_ wrong…

But tradesmen didn’t  - they didn’t _stroke_ your hand, the way he did. And tradesmen didn’t look at you the way the lieutenant did, eyes burning with agonized expectation under their veiled lids. He kept sneaking tiny glances beneath his eyelashes at her face - anxious eyes, slightly faltering glance –

 _Stop it. You shouldn’t be doing this._  A dim voice said insistently, somewhere in the echoing recesses of her head. _You **shouldn’t** …_

“Shouldn’t” was a stupid word, Lizzie decided, hazily. The truth was she was oddly terrified at the thought that he would _stop._ Just to be touched, to be – well, to be _wanted_ \- was like stepping into one of her dreams of Ensign Baker…

_Baker._

Oh God. Baker.

‘I-I have to go.’

Simcoe’s hand froze, mid-caress.

‘So soon.’ He said flatly. ‘You would leave me so soon.’

Lizzie looked away, avoiding the raw disappointment in Simcoe’s eyes. ‘I missed an invitation to dinner at Whitehall yesterday,’ she said shortly, by way of explanation. ‘I can’t afford to offend them-‘

‘What, the _Major_?’ Simcoe looked scornful. ‘You could lead Hewlett around on an apron-string and he’d hardly be _offended...’_

‘Major Hewlett’s a good man, Lieutenant.’ Lizzie said tartly. ‘He’s been kind to Pa – kinder than he need be. He’s polite, well-mannered. He doesn’t insult Pa to his face, or try and cheat him out of his money. And he pays his fees on time,’ she added. ‘A worthy patron, all things considered. I just wish he was the only person we had to placate-’

‘You have no need to placate anyone. Least of all Hewlett.’ Simcoe had resumed toying with her hands again – although he kept one eye on her face, watching her countenance change. ‘There’s something else. Tell me.’

‘Well...’ Lizzie hovered. She had been thinking of Mr Woodhull’s beady, sharp little eyes, the watchful cynicism beneath his genial paternal air. ‘No, it’s not really Hewlett. It’s the magistrate-’

‘Woodhull?’ Simcoe scoffed. ‘You don’t really think that buttery lout has any _power_ here anymore, do you? The army owns him, body and soul. He oozes up to Hewlett like some unctuous little office toady. He’ll do as he’s told by Hewlett, if he has any sense.’

‘Yes, but he doesn’t _like_ Pa.’ Lizzie said, uneasily. ‘He thinks he’s a fraud.’

 _Knows it, more like,_ she thought silently. But that wasn’t quite true. Pa _was_ a painter. Major Hewlett would get his painting, in the end - even if it did take a little while longer than a sober portrait-painter might. ‘We’re outsiders here. As a judge, he could make things very difficult for us-’

There were any amount of little charges a magistrate with a sharp eye and a distrust of strangers could lay at Pa’s door. In one particularly strait-laced New England town, Pa had once been accused of ‘debauching public morals’ – by a wizened old fellow in an old-fashioned periwig who looked as though he’d sailed over with the Puritans a hundred years ago. Nothing had come of it, fortunately, but it had frightened Lizzie badly at the time. It could have meant a public whipping, at the very least. Or worse – gaol. She’d be alone without the protection of Pa, and lost in an unfriendly town with a host of hostile eyes at her back...

She shivered. Something of that feeling returned, even here in Setauket, where she knew she had allies.

‘You are afraid.’ Simcoe’s voice was unexpectedly gentle ‘You feel alone and powerless.’ He resumed stroking her hands again, fingers tracing the lines of her palm.

 ‘Can I be anything else, over Pa?’ Lizzie let out a small, mirthless laugh. ‘I can’t even keep him from drink. How can I keep him from making a fool of himself in front of Mr Woodhull?’

 ‘You can’t. Nothing can.’ Simcoe said calmly. ‘I think you under-estimate your own position.  You have more power than you realise: in _yourself_. But you don’t always use it.’

‘What?’ Lizzie blinked, bemused.

‘ _You_ secured your father’s position here. I saw it, that first day you sketched the Major. You... _persuaded_ him, didn’t you? Under the cover of “your father’s instructions”.’ There wasn’t any censure in Simcoe’s voice; on the contrary, there was an open note of appreciation. ‘And you have made a good position for yourself amongst the women. You are liked. That is a happy ability, being able to turn acquaintances to good use-’

Lizzie was amused and a little saddened by how frankly he made a case for blatant self-interest. ‘You consider friendship little more than a useful tool?’ she asked.

Simcoe looked mystified by the question.

‘What else is it _for_?’ He waved the consideration away impatiently, like an errant fly. ‘No, you misunderstand my point. Consider the judge from a _strategic_ standpoint. He is an enemy to your peace and security here in Setauket. As an enemy, he must be confounded.’

‘How?’ Lizzie asked, fascinated despite herself. ‘ _How_ confounded?’

‘Force won’t do it.’ Simcoe said promptly. ‘Defence – well, you’ve tried that. You can’t expect defences to hold from a position of weakness. The only recourse you have now is guile; mixed with a little truth.’

‘ _Truth?_ ’ Lizzie looked askance. ‘What kind of truth?’

‘Only a very _little_.’ Simcoe said, soothingly. ‘But you must present your case plainly. _You_ are the artist. Admit as much.’

‘What will that do?’

‘I’ve made a study of the honourable magistrate. He fancies himself as a keen judge of character.’ Simcoe snorted, derisively. ‘He wouldn’t be in the profession if he wasn’t. So he is susceptible to pressure, of a _moral_ kind.’

‘Oh! ‘Lizzie began to grasp his meaning. ‘I... see.’ She rolled her eyes heavenwards in parody of a dramatic actress. ‘ You mean -I should beg him with tears in my eyes not to betray darling Papa’s weakness?’

‘Precisely.’ Simcoe beamed cherubically at her, delighted by how quickly she had followed. ‘It would be better staged before witnesses, of course – something to _incline_ him towards mercy. But no matter how you do it, y _ou_ gain the moral high ground. _He_ will feel obliged, as a Christian gentleman and figure of justice, _not_ to drive your father out of town– and to boot, the Judge will _think_ he has won a victory.’ He raised his eyebrows at her, enjoying Lizzie’s rapt attention. ‘With his clear-sighted knowledge of human nature.’

Calculating as the scenario was, Lizzie laughed outright. This was “smoke and mirrors” at its very best. She had no idea Simcoe could be so engaging.

‘You should have been a playwright, lieutenant. That was _wonderful_.’

‘Oh, I’m no playwright. Military strategy is second nature to me.’ Simcoe lifted his eyes to hers – a brief, warm glow of blue. ‘But I have my dreams, like any other man.’

Before Lizzie could think how to answer him, he slowly and deliberately lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

It wasn’t a courtesy kiss. It lingered on the back of her hand, far outside the bounds of politeness, lips and cheek delicately brushing her skin.

No-one (outside the boundless realms of fantasy and dreamland) had _ever_ kissed Lizzie’s hand like that. It sent a thrill up her arm

Through a haze of pure shock, Lizzie noticed Simcoe had closed his eyes briefly on touching her, as though savouring the physical contact. He planted another kiss on her palm, and then folded her fingers over it; as though he’d made her a gift.

‘Well then,’ he said, all polite, distant briskness once more. ‘I shan’t keep you if you have business at Whitehall, Miss Lowndes. As I know you do.’ He released her hand. ‘But if tomorrow would permit – another visit would be _most_ agreeable.’

‘Yes,’ said Lizzie, trying to control the wobble in her voice. ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ She got up with difficulty, feeling her face grow hot under his gaze. ‘T-tomorrow, then. If you like.’

She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to; she could feel Simcoe’s gaze scorching the back of her neck as she walked the length of the infirmary.

 

* * *

 

 

‘All well?’ Kennock enquired boredly, from the depths of his cubby-hole. ‘He’s evidently improved his manners?’Lizzie could see his shrewd surgeon’s eyes sparkling with a vague interest he couldn’t quite hide. ‘You were closeted up together a good while...’

‘Sketching,’ Lizzie said distantly, mechanically adjusting her cloak ties. ‘Sketching takes time.’ She had abandoned her pencils by Simcoe’s bed, she realized – but there was no power in Heaven or Hell that could have convinced her to go back for them. ‘I have business at Whitehall – if you’ll _excuse_ me –‘

‘By all means.’ Kennock murmured. He had a sleepy, contented look about him that Lizzie attributed to the empty frumenty bowl and tell-tale splashes of boiled wheat on his cravat. ‘Come again, if y’please. Haven’t eaten that well since we were in Boston-‘

Dismissed, Lizzie fled.

 

 _Flirt_. Lizzie shouted at herself, as she set of at a half-run on the road to Whitehall. _Hussy._ _Delilah_. _Coquette_. _No better than you ought to be._ She might as well be some slatternly camp follower with her stay-laces loose.

But no matter how brisk her pace, she couldn’t outrun the mean little voice inside her head that whispered to her from behind her own indignant self-scoldings.

 _You’re only saying that to yourself because it’s what you’re_ **supposed** _to say._ _You don’t mean it._

 _I do!_ Lizzie protested. _I do mean it!_

_No, you don’t. Admit it – you’re growing bored of Baker and his poetry. All those pretty words, but he never even **looks** at you-_

Lizzie dashed an angry tear from her eye, pretending it was the bitter wind. _That’s not true_.

_If Baker **kissed** your hand like that -_

_Stop it!_

But it _was_ true. You couldn’t lie to yourself; at least not with conviction. If Ensign Baker had kissed her hand, even in the usual way, Lizzie would have melted into a puddle of happiness. If he had kissed it in the same way that Simcoe had -

Oh _God_. The bitter truth was that Ensign Baker barely even met her eye. Lizzie had hoped that the impassioned poetry would lead somewhere – tender assignations, declaration of love, hesitant vows of true love – even to amicable courtship in the form of card games in the inn parlour. _Anything_ would have done. But aside from the fervent poetry, there had been nothing. Not even a crumb of consolation in the form of a meaningful glance.

 Whereas the lieutenant-

John Graves Simcoe was a riddle Lizzie didn’t think she could solve in one sitting. This was a man who had considered a coarse remark about horseflesh an excellent opening gambit in conversation with a gentlewoman. He was a man who cantered wildly between two camps: the polished manners of a public schoolboy and the studied brutality of the hardened soldier. And the infuriating thing about the man was that –

Well. _He_ couldn’t always tell the two apart. And if the man didn't know himself...how on earth could she guess at his meaning? She couldn’t judge whether his little gesture in the infirmary was an accidental breach of good manners (more than likely) or deliberate. If it was deliberate –

Lizzie found herself incredulously touching her own hand, as if his touch was still on her skin. She caught herself and stopped, angrily folding her hand into a tight little fist . _Hussy._ _Jezebel._ It  had all become far too _complicated_ …

Perhaps, Lizzie decided, desperately, it would be better to be generous. He had dropped her hands afterwards with the most irreproachable air in the world! He probably hadn’t _meant_ anything by it.

Still – it had triggered an undeniable response in Lizzie, which she wasn’t sure how to shake off. Even if, given all possible benefit of the doubt, it had simply been Simcoe carrying politeness to extremes - it had _felt_ like a lover’s gesture. Even thinking about it made her face grow hot and a fluttering, uncertain feeling rise in her stomach that had previously only been stirred by poetry-

 _No_. Lizzie thought to herself _. I won’t think about that. Focus on the task in hand, Lizzie. It could just be ‘smoke and mirrors.’ – seeing things where there’s nothing._

 _Yes._ It would be far better to be _generous_. For her own sake. Thinking about the implications the intimacy implied was too much at present; and she needed her wits about her now more than ever.

* * *

 

For wives ill used no remedy remains,

To daily racks condemned, and to eternal chains.

From whence is this unjust distinction grown?

Are we not formed with passions like your own?

Nature with equal fire our souls endued,

Our minds as haughty, and as warm our blood.

                                                               Lady Mary Wortley Montagu:  _Epistle from Mrs Yonge to her Husband,_

  

‘Yes?’ The house-servant who answered the door wrinkled her nose (politely) at  Lizzie’s second-best dress . ‘If you’re lookin’ for Judge Woodhull, he’s up at the church with the Major. Won’t be back until later-’

‘There must be some mistake. My father has an appointment painting Major Hewlett today-’ A familiar sinking feeling entered Lizzie’s gut.

‘No ma’am.’ The woman said firmly. ‘There _ain’t_. Ain’t seen Mr Lowndes all day. He sent a message early, said he wasn’t feelin’ too good.’

‘But he definitely _said_ -‘

Lizzie almost gave up. She knew what Pa’s “indisposition” was likely to be. It was a trick he’d played more than once; assuring Lizzie solemnly he had a sitting, then calling it off with the actual patrons. Where he actually was, Lizzie knew better than to ask.

The woman must have seen the defeat in Lizzie’s face. She softened, slightly. ‘Have you tried the fort? Mebbe he felt better, went up there-‘

‘Who is it, Aberdeen?’ a clear female voice called, from the parlour. ‘Visitors?’ Someone shifted. Lizzie could hear footsteps.

Aberdeen hesitated. ‘Ma’am? Don’t you trouble yourself; Mr Woodhull said you weren’t to get up-‘

 

And then a Renaissance Madonna sailed into the hallway.

Lizzie was dimly familiar with a few obscure _Primaveras_ – and amongst the Dutch Catholics, she had seen any amount of flat-faced Holy Virgins . She had never yet seen anyone look very much like an old painting – they always seemed stiff and a little exaggerated to her.

But young Mary Woodhull was almost, point for point, a Renaissance figure . She had an Italian Madonna’s strawberry blonde hair in addition to a perfect, delicately tinted Madonna’s face. Pale skin, pink cheeks – and a composed hand over the swell of her pregnant belly. All you needed to do was paint a star-spattered stable in the background, and you had a _Nativity_ in the making.

But once the initial impression had overwhelmed you, you began to notice little things that didn’t _quite_ fit. Mrs Woodhull’s eyes were reddened, as though she’d been crying. Her dress was very fine -  a loose pale green silk robe bundled over a loosened quilted petticoat that was worth more than Lizzie’s whole wardrobe put together – but one house-slipper was loose on her foot, spoiling the artfully arranged image of the lady at leisure.

She looked Lizzie over, blinking. ‘Oh. Are you Miss Lowndes?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Lizzie made her curtsey, dipping her head as she did so. Mary Woodhull was more like the sort of patrons she was used to in the city; standing very properly on her dignity as “lady of the house.”

‘ You were expected last night, weren’t you?’ Mrs Woodhull glanced at Aberdeen. ‘I understood you were – _indisposed_.’ She sounded a little reproachful.

‘And very sorry to have missed the invitation, I assure you,’ Lizzie said humbly. ‘I hoped to make amends today by making my apologies in person, if you’re well enough to receive visitors-‘

‘Oh, I don’t think-‘Aberdeen began. ‘Miss should be _resting-‘_

‘No, please!’ Mary interrupted, cutting the servant dead with a pointed look. ‘ _Do_ come in!’ she gave a light, tinkling laugh. ‘I am in need of company, and I hear so little of what goes on in town –‘she turned imperiously on her heel with a silken rustle . ‘We shall sit in the parlour.’

 

 By rights the parlour ought to have been a pleasant room. Richard Woodhull had a fine wooden harpsichord set by the window, and there were books, ornaments - even a few heavy family likenesses staring down flatly from the walls. It _should_ have been pleasant. Privately, Lizzie  thought she had never sat in so cheerless a place before. Whitehall was a gentleman widower’s residence; and it showed.

It was still furnished in the stiff style of twenty-years ago, with musty Berlin-wool tapestries on the chairs and crooked little spindly coffee-tables with clawed-legs. Mary Woodhull looked as out of place as a china shepherdess in her bright silks amongst the dark panelling and sombre colours.

Lizzie repressed a shiver as she gingerly took a seat. There was a chill in the air not even the fire burning brightly in the grate could dispel.

‘Tea?’ Mrs Woodhull enquired genially, lifting a pair of silver sugar tongs. ‘You must have tea. The gentlemen generally prefer something stronger, but ladies, I find, are always amenable…’

Her eyes were cool. Lizzie felt the sting of the faint implication; but she knew better than to challenge it. Mary was probing her, like a loose tooth. She smiled, sweetly. ‘You are most obliging, ma’am. Tea would do nicely.’

‘Of course. Aberdeen? If you please -’

 Wordlessly, Aberdeen took her mistress’ arm and eased her down carefully into a winged armchair plumped up with stiff cushions. Mary gave a sigh of evident relief.

‘The child - ‘she said airily, settling back down. ‘It makes things a little difficult, at present-’ She gave the light little laugh once more. ‘It will be easier once I am delivered, I’m sure.’ Her hands shook a little as she handed Lizzie her cup. ‘My mother told me things become much – clearer, once the child is born. There is less doubt for everyone; for my husband most of all. He is... _most_ concerned for me.’ Her voice was careful, but Lizzie heard the pause. There were things happening behind Mary Woodhull’s clear grey eyes that couldn’t be put down on paper. The ink would have curdled.

Lizzie’s eyes dropped. Anything, she decided, any pleasantry to put the woman at ease, distract her from the raw bitterness brewing behind that doll’s mask of a face. She gestured timidly to the bulk of the child. ‘Do you know when you expect to be… delivered?

‘Oh, time – time is an uncertainty in these cases.’ Mrs Woodhull flushed, but it was with faint gratification at being asked a matronly question. ‘I think it should be before Christmas.’ She patted her stomach, as though reassuring herself. ‘Aberdeen tells me so. You see how she guards me. And Mrs Tallmadge did think the same, and she birthed eight children in her time…

‘That must be a comfort,’ Lizzie said encouragingly, trying to please. ‘To have someone experienced close to hand...’

Mrs Woodhull’s eyes slid to the fire grate and then back again, her mouth set in a sharp line.

‘I do not see the Tallmadges any more.’ she said shortly. ‘Not… socially. We are not friendly at present.’ Her lips thinned. ‘Political differences.’

‘Oh.’

Lizzie cursed herself. Of _course_ they wouldn’t be. It was hardly likely that the preacher’s mother would remain friendly with a family who had seen her son robbed of his ministry for ‘preaching sedition’. But there was a slight disconsolate flicker about Mrs Woodhull’s eyes that suggested it was a recent quarrel – and one that had left her a little bereft. ‘But the other ladies in town…?’

‘Most of my friends are in Oyster Bay. They are mostly unmarried.’ Mrs Woodhull said tonelessly, crushing any hope of reviving the conversation. ‘They find the journey… difficult in winter. And Setauket can be - stifling, for them. We are rather provincial here.’ She attempted a playful smile that died before it reached her eyes. ‘But it suits Abraham, of course. His work is here.’

‘I believe I have seen Mr Woodhull,’ Lizzie said brightly, with a cheeriness borne from outright desperation. Talking to Mary Woodhull felt like handling a spun- glass ornament. She felt brittle, to Lizzie. If she cracked, she would be all sharp points and slicing edges.

‘Oh?’ Mary set down the teapot, a wary look entering her eyes. ‘He never mentioned it to me.’

‘Not to speak to,' Lizzie explained. 'In passing. At the Strong tavern, you know? We have lodgings there-‘

The colour drained out of Mary’s face.

‘The Strong Tavern,’ she repeated, a little unsteadily. ‘The StrongTavern.' Something like fear flittered across her face.' You saw Abraham at the Strong... _Tavern_?’ 

‘Mrs Woodhull, are you all right?’ Lizzie rose to her feet, concerned. Was young Mr Woodhull a secret drunkard, she wondered? He’d seemed amiable enough. ‘You’re white as a sheet –‘

‘ _What was he doing there?!_ ’ Mary Woodhull had hauled herself up precariously by the rickety little coffee table, her knuckles white against the wood. Lizzie made a movement as though to help her up, but her hostess’s eyes snapped sparks, like a dog with its hackles raised. **Keep off.**

Lizzie’s legs folded her back into her chair. She had seen and endured endless varieties of snobbery from New York and Philadelphia ladies, but nothing had prepared her for anything like young Mrs Woodhull. There was a wild distress bubbling beneath the surface that frightened Lizzie as much as it made her pity her hostess .

‘ _What_ was he doing there?’ Mary Woodhull was half whispering to herself. ‘He never told me he was going to see -‘

She took a deep breath, calming herself, and then attempted a smile in her guest’s direction.

‘The Strongs are our neighbours, of course,’ she said placidly, pretending to look at herself in the looking glass on the mantelpiece, one hand idly fiddling with a rose coloured ribbon in her frilled cap. She didn’t fool anyone – she was watching Lizzie’s every movement in the mirror like a hawk. ‘I believe their house is very fine.’

‘I-‘ Lizzie’s tongue had thickened, filling her mouth. ‘Yes, I suppose it –‘

‘Who was he talking to?’ Mary had turned away from the mirror now. She was making no attempt to disguise the fact she was now watching Lizzie’s face for the answer as much as she was listening for it.

‘Only - only Mr Strong. It was just some business talk. I didn’t pay much attention-‘

‘So - Selah Strong.’ Mrs Woodhull nodded – but the sharp line of her tensed shoulders beneath her jacket didn’t slacken. ‘Just him? No-one else?’

‘Mrs Woodhull, I don’t -‘ Lizzie tried to take control of the reins. ‘I don’t know what you’re asking me. Who else did you think would be there-‘

 Mary Woodhull’s lips had crimped tightly over her teeth. She looked faintly sick.

‘His _wife_?’

Lizzie goggled. ‘Anna?’  She blinked, trying to understand. ‘Anna _was_ there, Mrs Woodhull – yes. But they only spoke for a few minutes –

‘They _spoke_.’ Mary’s grip on the mantelpiece tightened. ‘Of course they did.’ She slumped disconsolately down into her armchair, whatever driving force that had fired her all spent. She seemed to have almost forgotten Lizzie’s existence.

‘Mrs Woodhull?’ Lizzie hardly dared breathe.

‘I thought things would be _clearer_ ,’ Mary Woodhull whispered to herself. One hand was bunched in the green satin of her robe, drawing it in on herself like a cocoon. ‘He _promised_ me...’

There was a step in the hallway. Aberdeen was standing there, her face like thunder, beckoning Lizzie with a sharp hand.

‘You’re over-tired, Missis Woodhull,’ she said firmly. ‘You rest. I’ll see your visitor out.’

He hand closed on Lizzie’s arm like a vice as the door swung shut behind them.

‘Now, _listen. -‘_ Aberdeen took a breath. ‘You get going. _Now_.’

‘I didn’t mean-‘ Lizzie said in fright.

‘I’m sure you didn’t. But you just - _leave her be_. Understand? I don’t know _what_ you done told her, but she got _enough_ on her mind already, understand? She don’t need no Setauket gossip to fret her more than she’s doing already. She’s been ranging around this house like a scalded cat – and I’ve got enough to do without pickin’ up the pieces-‘ She stopped, to glare at Lizzie’s face. ‘We _don’t_ talk about the Strongs in _this_ house. _Ever._ Or that Smith girl. The Judge won’t have it.’

She ushered Lizzie firmly to the door. ‘Today ain’t a good day. _Goodbye_.’

 

* * *

 

 

And that, Lizzie thought, rather dispiritedly, was that.

It was quite level with the rest of the day – her quarrel with Jenneke, the mess that had been the whole infirmary business– and now; _this_.

Just another nest of vipers, this time behind the pasteboard façade of Whitehall. There was precious little chance of “being frank” with the judge now; Lizzie wasn’t going to venture back there any time soon. There were too many things left unsaid in Setauket. Too many secrets. Too much _darkness_ -

'Here!' A man was haring up to Whitehall, fast as his legs could carry him.Lizzie dimly recognised him as a tavern regular, one of the gawky farmers who drank ale at the bar. He held his hat to his head to prevent it falling off as he ran towards her. ‘Is the magistrate at home?’

‘He’s at the barracks,’ Lizzie said listlessly. ‘With the Major.’ Then, slightly more curious, ‘What do you need him for?’

‘Bloody hellfire! Haven’t you heard?’ the man’s face was aglow with a mixture of ghoulish excitement; the anticipation of being the first to share bad news. ‘There’s been murder done!’

 ‘Murder!’

‘Aye – the murder of Selah Strong!’

 

 

 


	16. A Most Barbarous Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rare incident in village life...

_I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,_  
_I feel I am alone._  
 _I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,_  
 _Alas! I would not check._  
 _For reasons not to love him once I sought,_  
 _And wearied all my thought_  
 _To vex myself and him: I now would give_  
 _My love could he but live._

                                Walter Savage Landor, _The Maid’s Lament_

 

Selah Strong was as familiar and normal a sight as the cracked washbasin Lizzie used every morning. He nodded to her over breakfast every day. He deftly filled pint-pots and hauled casks to the cellar, but still found the time to brush by his wife, a gentle hand on her waist.... He had – he had been about to learn that he was to be a father-

Murder.

It was an ugly word. Raw, savage – something brutes with clubs did to each other in the dark.

 

‘No!’ horrified, Lizzie shook her head, furiously. ‘No! That can’t be _right_. I saw him this morning! He was with his wife, in the tavern! He was-‘ Fear gripped her stomach. ‘Is Anna-‘

‘Oh, you’re the painter’s girl?’ the man squinted at her face. ‘Lodging with ‘em? Be glad you weren’t there at the time. I _saw_ it,’ he added, with relish. ‘I _saw_ it all.’

‘What about _Anna_?!’ Lizzie said furiously. ‘What _happened_?’

‘Eh? The wife?’ The man mopped his sweating forehead. ‘I can’t say. Didn’t see. But I can tell you this – Selah Strong’s lying on his own hearth with his brains dashed out on the fender. And if that ain’t murder, I don’t know what is-‘

_‘Tell me!’_

  

* * *

 

 

Anna took a deep breath, tucked a loose curl behind her ear and took the plunge.

 ‘Selah?’

The last of the lunchtime customers had trickled back to their tables. Her husband was stacking plates, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

‘Mm?’ he said, absently. ‘I think we’re done now, Annie –‘

His glance snapped up sharply on realising what he’d seen. ‘ _Anna!_ What are you _doing_ down here?’

‘I came down to see _you_ , of course.’ Anna said lightly, one hand on his arm. ‘Can’t a wife walk into her own husband’s rooms to see how he does?’

‘You’re _supposed_ to be abed.’ Selah said accusingly. ‘Resting.’

‘I’ve done enough of that-‘

‘You’re still queasy of a morning.’ Selah said tightly, glancing around the room before dropping his voice. ‘That says you’re _not_ well. Who let you get up?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Abigail? I should tan the hide from her for letting you do anything so _foolish_ as-‘

‘She didn’t _let_ me do anything, Selah.’ Anna said sharply. Selah was not above taking his ill temper out on his house-slaves. ‘I got up for myself.’

She put out a hand on his arm. ‘I wanted to _talk_ to you.’

‘Talking,’ Selah repeated, looking nonplussed. He dragged one hand through his hair.

The look of bewilderment Selah threw towards her hit Anna’s conscience hard. Were they really so close - and still strangers to each other?

‘Not here-’ Anna looked around the bar. ‘If you don’t mind.’

 

Talking was not something that often happened between the Strongs. Selah was a busy man; and a man of few words, when it came down to it. Whatever thoughts he had, he kept them close to his chest. A natural caution, given his quick temper. Anna understood him.

On the delicate front of the marriage bed, things had been simpler. Closer, perhaps than before. Anna was a natural, fiercely sensual creature – not at all a timorous or simply dutiful wife. It had been one of the things that had so helplessly entranced Selah from the beginning. There were _some_ things that war and revolution couldn’t take from them, and that included the pleasure of loving and being loved. Anna had felt it was a natural extension of their secrets – their partnership, as it were. It wasn’t love, exactly – more a mutual, breathless act of defiance right under the enemy’s nose. After moving Caleb’s contraband liquor down into the cellar, Anna had pulled her husband towards the shadow of the ale casks, dark eyes smouldering with a smothered excitement, her desire sharpened by the furtive act of rebellion. And if she occasionally felt a stab of guilt, that it wasn’t always Selah’s face she saw in front of her – well. That was for herself alone.

Afterwards, Selah had emerged gasping for air, with the stunned look of a man set down by a whirlwind, one hand still awkwardly doing up the buttons on his breeches. A creature stunned. It used to make Anna feel powerful, that she could do that to a man.

 

But in the here and now, there was a stubborn set to her husband’s mouth that Anna knew from long experience was not to be defeated. ‘You _shouldn’t_ be downstairs. If we’re to talk, it’ll be in your room. ’

 

Oh, ye God above, Anna prayed inwardly.  This was harder than she’d thought it would be.

 

That was the trouble, really. Anna understood Selah, but she didn’t love him. And whilst Selah loved her, he didn’t _understand_ her. He couldn’t anticipate her own thoughts and feelings. He could console, he could placate – but there was a blank confusion and impatience in his eyes when he realised that she didn’t always think as he did...

 

 But she held her tongue, ignoring the grins and chortles from the old men in the corner as Selah ushered her out. She let him shoo her up the stairs, out of sight of the tavern guests – for all intents and purposes a good, obedient wife in front of friends and neighbours. . But as soon as they reached the upper landing she turned on her heel and refused to move.

 ‘No _argument_ , Anna.’ Selah was eying her as though she was a difficult cask to be moved, clearly considering simply picking her up as a way to forestall further difficulty.

‘ _Selah_...’ Did other wives have this problem? Anna grasped his shoulders.  ‘I just wanted to talk-‘

‘We can talk once you’re back in bed.’

‘I’ve spent enough time in _bed-’_

‘Your stomach is disordered. The apothecary said so.’ Selah spoke slowly, as though to a half-wit.

It was enough to make the most patient woman’s blood boil. He wasn’t _listening._ ‘You should be abed until you recover-‘

Anna struggled to keep her temper. _For God’s sake, Selah, I’m **trying.**.._

‘It’s likely to _remain_ disordered.’ She said evenly, dropping her eyes meaningfully to her stomach. ‘For the next few months, at least.’

Selah shook his head. ‘Anna, I don’t care _how_ long it takes. You need to-‘

Anna lost patience.

‘I’m with _child,_ Selah.’ she said bluntly.

It was a brutal pleasure that Anna couldn’t deny herself, being able to fire off her news at once. It cut the argument short with all the devastating impact of a cannon-ball.

 Selah rocked back on his heels, clutching at the banister, as he looked up at her in shock – his mouth a silent “O” of surprise.

 

‘W- what?’

‘Child.’ Anna took his hand and laid it across her stomach, lest there should be any doubt. Selah had always had blunt hands, hands that had never been unsure in anything they did. But they trembled now. She ventured a small smile at his stunned expression.

‘You’re – you’re sure?’ Selah’s eyes dropped down, rapt, to the line of Anna’s stomach. ‘How do you _know_ -?’

 ‘The queasiness is a sign. I confess I didn’t know it myself-‘she coloured, slightly, a little abashed at her ignorance of her own body. But how _could_ she know? These had been matrons’ things, things her mother talked about in low voices with other women. Not for children. By the time Anna was grown enough to be admitted to the women’s circle, her mother was been long gone. ‘Which is why you must let Abigail alone, Selah. Don’t scold. She _knew_ what it was. She’s birthed children before...’

 

Selah put his hands out; not quite touching her, but tentatively tracing his wife’s outline, as though she were a figure in need of definition. ‘Abigail...’ he repeated, almost numbly. ‘I mean... she’s sure? I never thought-’

‘Neither did I.’ Anna said, briefly. She ventured a smile, and put out her hands. ‘But there it is.’

‘A child...’ Selah’s eyes, when he looked up at her, had flared into a warmth of expression Anna had rarely seen there before. He looked elated– as though he had taken a swig of French brandy and gulped it down in one go. ‘A child...’

‘I know this changes everything-‘ Anna said anxiously. ‘I wasn’t sure... with the – the business-‘

The business conducted under cover of darkness, she meant. The money changing hands, the covert splash of muffled oars at night.

But Selah was thinking of his own affairs, eyes aglow.

‘All for the better, Annie! A son? To manage the land, work the tavern?’ Selah’s eyes shone as he leant forward and kissed her. ‘A _strong_ boy...’ he smiled at his own joke.

‘It might be a girl,’ Anna said, almost involuntarily.

‘Pshaw!’ Selah said dismissively. ‘If it is, there’ll be a son to follow.’ He raised his voice, loud enough for the whole inn to hear.

‘Eli! Cicero! Open up a cask from the cellar, will you? Pour ‘em out with a will. Enough for every man here.’

There was an overawed hush in the general hubbub from the bar. Selah Strong was not known for his generosity where liquor was concerned.

‘Sir?’ Both potboys looked disbelieving. ‘You – you sure about that? Enough for every man?’

‘This is an occasion to remember.’ Selah said, descending the stairs to address his customers at large. He held out one hand to Anna. ‘I can tell you all that Mrs Strong-‘

‘ _Selah_ -‘ Anna hissed, scarlet with mortification. ‘Selah, I hardly think this is the right **time** -‘

But it was no use. Selah was drunk on his own happiness. ‘Mrs Strong, my wife-‘ Selah paused, to look up expectantly at Anna standing on the staircase landing. ‘Come on, Annie – don’t be shy! My wife will be providing a happy addition to the family in a few months time!’

Anna descended, pink-faced, taking her husband’s hand amidst the raucous whoops and ragged cheers from the farmers at the bar and the winks from the old men playing draughts.

 The blushing mother-to-be, she thought, a note of bitterness echoing through her head.

She’d _known_ it would be this way. On one level, this was this was why she had put off telling her husband – the weight of expectation was too _much_ for her. Playing the good wife, the happy mother – and everyone’s eyes dropping speculatively to her stomach as though she was a sow in season. Weighing up what could be got from her. A woman’s worth was her market value in service and children.

Anna’s hand dropped almost protectively to her stomach, beneath her apron.

Perhaps, if she’d been in love with him, it might have been different. She would have overlooked it. But Selah’s throwaway comment should his child be a daughter had sobered her.

 

But...what else could she do but smile? She reasoned, heavily.  It would have been wrong to grudge Selah his happiness after so much uncertainty. And he _was_ happy. Wonderfully so.  But still...

 

Someone had struck up a tune on a fiddle, joined by the impromptu beat of fists pounding enthusiastically on the table. Selah turned towards her, dark eyes shining with pride, one hand held out to lead her in the dance-

Anna wavered -  then adjusted her smile and took his hand. It had been a long time since Selah had been merry or carefree enough to dance with her. It wouldn’t be so very hard to be happy, she reasoned. Just for a little while.

 

And it was enough. All that afternoon it was enough – as the autumn sun moved from one side of the parlour to the other, and the cask ale flowed, and the fiddle scraped out tune after tune. Anna danced until she was out of breath – and laughingly pleaded off standing up with any more neighbours and well-wishers. It had felt like being a young girl at a country dance again.

‘Enough, all of you!’ Selah said peremptorily at last, helping her to a chair. ‘Dance with your own wives, if you’ve a mind for dancing. Leave off with mine!’

‘Mine don’t dance no more!’ a drunken voice grumbled plaintively, amidst a good-natured laugh from the mass of Setauket folk.

It was a more of a mixed crowd now. Under cover of wishing her well, respectable farmer’s goodwives and their daughters now jogged elbows with the men folk, enjoying the music, ale and

merriment as the shadows grew longer. It had always been hard for Anna to feel a part of Setauket, but tonight, with the fizz of rum and dancing and living behind her -

 Perhaps it _did_ change everything for the better, she thought dreamily, resting her head on the wooden settle and watching the dancers skipping to and fro…

 

Until the moment _soured_.

 

* * *

 

 

Selah turned round at the feel of an anxious hand on his jacket, thinking that Anna wanted to return to bed. He scowled at the sight of the pale, earnest face of Abraham Woodhull bobbing beneath his grey woollen cap.

‘Not in favour of the Scarlet Lion tonight?’ he said jeeringly. ‘Thought you didn’t like my ale, Woodhull. Not normally good enough for your _Tory_ tastes...’

Something twitched behind Woodhull’s expression, akin to pain, along with an irritation he –just-barely held in check. He tried to smile. ‘Politics got nothing to do with good ale, Selah.  It’s about the – the other matter-’ He dropped his voice. One hand went to the pocket of his jacket, weighing a small purse.

‘Not tonight,’ Selah said impatiently, waving him aside, one eye on the dripping lees of the rapidly emptying ale cask at the bar. ‘Last cask of October ale, Eli! That’ll finish it off decent…’

‘Celebrating?’ Abraham said briefly.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Selah stopped, and looked at him. There had never been any love lost between Anna’s old sweetheart and her husband. He affected a careless tone that didn’t match the glow of suppressed triumph in his eyes. ‘There’ll be an addition to the Strong family too, Woodhull. My Annie there’s _expecting_.’

He didn’t see that ‘my Annie’ was uneasily watching the pair of them from beneath her eyelashes, feigning a light doze in her chair.

 She saw the way Abraham flinched a little – and she felt, without a word being spoken, the way Abe inwardly retreated away in disgust from the thought of Anna having to bed this dour, ill-tempered man…

But he remembered his manners. She had to give him that.

‘Congratulations.’ He said, attempting a watered-down smile. It died before it reached his eyes. ‘I’m glad you and Anna are-‘

‘Are **_what_**? Happy?’

Selah’s eyes flickered suspiciously from Abraham – a slight wisp of a man, but somehow with the arrogance to assume he knew Anna _better_ than he did. He jealously followed Woodhull’s gaze - toward his wife’s place by the hearth.

He took another swig of his own ale.

‘That’s something you never could understand, Woodhull, could you? That she could live without you.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ Selah leant in, his voice savage. ‘Me and Annie – we’re _happy._ She’s _happy_ without you.’ The ale had brought out a quarrelsome streak in Selah. That Abraham Woodhull took it so tamely irritated him beyond measure.  ‘She doesn’t _need_ you anymore. She never _did-‘_

Abraham’s fist clenched at the taunt; but he kept his voice checked.

‘I don’t need _you_ to tell me what Anna wants-‘

‘ I’m her _husband_.’ Selah poked a finger at the buttons of Abraham’s waistcoat. ‘You left _her_ , remember? All on your Pa’s say-so. For that fat dowry your brother’s fiancé brought with him-‘

‘You keep your mouth _shut_ about my-‘

From the corner of his eye, Abraham caught sight of Anna sitting bolt upright in her chair, not even feigning sleep, dark eyes alarmed as she began to hoist herself upright...

He clamped his lips shut over his teeth, sucking back words and taking a steadying breath.  ‘I didn’t come here to _argue_ , Selah.’

‘No, you came to borrow _money_. Money you’re not asking _dear Papa_ for this time-‘

‘ _Selah-‘_

‘Money?’ Anna’s voice made Selah spin guiltily on his heel, and Abe look down, ashamed. Her voice sounded strangled. ‘What’s this about borrowing money?’

 

‘Nothing, Annie. We were just talking-’

‘It’s nothing to concern you. Men’s matters.’  Selah said, glowering at the familiar ‘Annie’ that had slipped from Abraham’s lips. ‘You rest. Abigail can take you back up to your room-’

‘I’m not going to sit _quietly_ in my room. What _is_ this? Selah?’

Selah looked at her flashing eyes and braced himself for a fight.. ‘It’s between Mr Woodhull and myself. No-one else.’ He said defensively. ‘I loaned him seed-money. He’s paying off interest. ’

‘You’d take interest money off _Abraham_?’ Anna’s tone was incredulous. ‘Selah, he’s a _friend-‘_

Selah looked up, eyes suddenly hard, distrustful. ‘ _Is_ he? Is that all he is?’

‘Anna – Abraham raised his hands. ‘Look – I’m leaving. I’ll see you both tomorrow, when heads are cooler-‘

 The air had suddenly gone cold; _very_ cold, between Mr and Mrs Strong.

‘You think _that_ of me?’ Anna said softly, her eyes dangerous.

 

Even Selah knew when he’d stepped too far. But he was stubborn enough to stick to his guns, come hell or high water.

‘Not that.’ He ducked his head, moving Anna tactfully away from the crowd. ‘But – there’s been talk in town, Annie. I’ve heard it. You can be too _fond_ -‘

‘ _Fond?!’_

‘For a man who means nothing to you – who _should_ mean nothing to you now, Anna – you show too much attention to him-’

‘So marriage to you wipes out all friendships of mine, is that it? I am nothing more than a dutiful shadow, reflecting back your likes and dislikes?!’

Selah’s jaw hardened. He knew he was in the wrong, somehow, but the ale had clouded his judgement. ‘It’s called being a loyal _wife_.’ He said, flatly.

‘I am not a puppet, Selah!’Anna jerked her elbow away from her husband’s grasp. ‘ _Yours_ , or-‘ her glance strayed over to Abraham. ‘... Anybody else’s. _Believe me._ ’

He hesitated. ‘I know.’ His eyes didn’t say so. They were still wounded, and veiled with suspicion .

‘Annie, I trust you. I know you’re a good wife. But-‘

 

 The boisterous inn-crowd was vaguely shouting something around them. ‘Speech! Speech!’ After much jostling:  ‘– Where’s the father? Where’s he hiding?’

Anna looked around in confusion. Speech? What was that? Who was to give a speech?

 ‘ _There_ y’are!’ A merry Mynheer DeJong rolled over to them, smelling strongly of cider. ‘Selah, come! Time enough for wives later! Setauket wants your speech!’

‘I have none,’ Selah said stonily, his eye still on a pale face framed by a knitted cap, hovering wraith-like in the doorway. Abe had not yet left. He was _still_ looking at Anna.  ‘No speeches.’

‘ _Wat voor_? No-no-no...’ DeJong waved a tipsy finger. ‘There must be speech! You must give us one. Come.’

‘Ay, speech!’

‘Speech! Speech!’ There was a clatter of mugs on tables, and enthusiastic hammering of fists on wood. ‘Speech!’

‘I tell you I have _none!’_ Selah burst out, with a smothered violence that should have made DeJong reconsider. In a sober moment, he would have recognised the danger-signs; Mr Strong’s temper was not easily riled, but once his blood was up he could hold his own. ‘Let me alone, damn you - make your own speeches, if that’s what you want-‘

But alas! The October ale Selah had poured out for his friends and neighbours had proved too potent.

DeJong merely beamed – a fat, satisfied smile that took nothing of his host’s mood into account.

‘I will do it myself then, _ja_?’

He stumbled up over a joint-stool, tankard weaving perilously through the air, to a chorus of laughter.

‘Friends! Farmers! Fellow peoples of Setauket!’ He said grandly, throwing out his arms. ‘It falls to me to congratulate our – our _exshellent_ host Selah Shtrong-‘

A ragged cheer.

‘- _And_ his lovely wife, on finally getting round to making _der kindje_ , yes? You _finally_ worked that one out, eh? Selah?’

The back of Selah’s neck had gone brick –red. A sure sign of fraying temper, but Anna felt no sympathy tonight. Let him have _his_ share of the notice, she thought sourly.

She edged sideways towards the door as fast she could, anxious to escape the drunken notice of the crowd.

‘Annie-‘

A hand pulled her aside, out of the light.

‘Abe! You’re still here?’ Anna pulled her shawl closer about her, shivering in the cool autumn breeze.. ‘Please – whatever you heard tonight... take no notice of what Selah says. He won’t take interest of you for the seed-money, I’ll see to that-‘

‘He _should_. I’m not asking for favours, Anna. I’m the same as any other man.’ He looked tired, Anna noticed. There were hollows underneath Abraham’s eyes she didn’t remember from the merry, laughing student she used to know.

‘Is the farm really doing so badly?’

‘It’s nothing I can’t fix before Mary’s delivered. I swear. But I can’t borrow money from my father. I’m a man now. And sometimes-‘ Abe grimaced. ‘I’d rather take Selah’s loans than have my father tell me again what a poor farmer I make.’

 Anna grimaced. ‘I know how that goes.’

They smiled at each other.

‘It’s _good_ to see you, Anna, you know.’ Abe looked at her, before looking away. ‘ I’m sorry if I-‘

‘It’s not you.’ Anna said abruptly. ‘It’s me. I was all out of sorts with this – this party, which we can ill-afford, but Selah was so _happy_...’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t congratulate you.’ Abe was watching her closely, from one corner of a grey eye. ‘I can see Selah’s happy, after his fashion.’ He paused. ‘But...what about you?’

‘Me?’ Anna hated the sound of her own voice. It sounded wavering, high – uncertain, everything she was trying to keep down. And part of Anna wanted to scream at him for even asking the question. _Am I happy, watching you make a life without me ; a life I thought we’d share? Am I happy, bearing another man’s child?_

The savagery of her own thoughts took her by surprise. Hot tears prickled behind her eyes.

‘Annie!’

Abraham’s hand was tucked under her chin, the way he used to comfort her when they were younger, after a fall. ‘Annie, don’t cry! Don’t cry-‘

 

* * *

 

 

‘...And finally, I say to you neighbours – may your cellars be full of good ale, your wives plump and fat – _one_ way or another –‘ another rowdy cheer urging DeJong on. ‘And may your children be many - no matter _who_ fathers ’em!’ DeJong turned around, satisfied.

It was a normal toast for a pregnancy or a birth; full of bawdy humour and sly insinuations all made in good-humour. Another man might have blushed, or made as though to cuff the speaker’s head in play.  Selah, standing there in a red mist of humiliation at the subtle digs and sly pokes of his neighbour at his marriage, his business and his potential paternity, looked up from his ale-mug – and saw, outlined in the door of his tavern, his wife, gently separating from Abraham Woodhull in what had evidently been an embrace. He turned around, one hand on her arm – on _his wife’s_ arm - before she urged him off.

 

 

A thousand little suspicions and petty jealousies descended on Selah’s brain like a swarm of buzzing flies. Things he had noticed since their marriage. It didn’t matter that _he_ tried to make her happy. Anna would _never_ be happy with him. The crushing realisation that tolerance, at best, was all he could ever have in his marriage.–

It was like a horse’s hoof to the stomach.

 

And DeJong seemed to know it. He seemed to have swollen, to Selah – to become red, fatter, more malicious. Worse:  he was _laughing_ at him, exposing him as a sorry cuckold before the whole of Setauket, like a demon...

The room began to spin.

Martin DeJong, who had raised his ale tankard to toast the father-to-be, lowered it uncertainly when he saw the expression on Selah’s face.

‘Neighbour – why - why are you looking at me like that?’

 _‘You...’_ Selah’s voice was nothing but a croak of rage. _‘You son of a pox-ridden Dutch whore-‘_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Anna blew her nose.

‘I’m being silly,’ she said, trying to shrug off her tears. ‘I know I am. You know what they say about women with child, always ready to fly off the handle –‘ she gave a wobbly smile. ‘I’m sure you get enough of that at home now...’

You don’t have to pretend with me, Annie.’ Abe’s jacket smelt comfortingly of wood-smoke and damp earth. ‘Are you all right? Has he... did he _hurt_ you?’

Anna looked up at him, bemused. ‘What do you mean?’ he eyes widened in shocked realisation. ‘You mean... ** _Selah_**?’

Abraham hesitated. ‘The child... I wondered-‘

‘ _Abe!’_ Horrified, Anna jerked herself out of his arms _._ ‘How could you _think-_?!Put that thought right out of your head! Selah’s not the man to do a thing like that -!’

‘Oh.’Abe’s shoulders sprang back in evident relief. ‘Thank God. But – you were _crying_ , and I thought, with the child – ‘

‘ ** _No_**. Nothing like that.’ Anna said, wiping a hand across her forehead. ‘ We – we get along. Selah and I. We _do_.’

‘For sure?’ Abe looked at her, long and searchingly. ‘You’d tell me, if you didn’t?’

Anna stared at the ground. Something about Abe’s show of concern – _now_ , of all moments – made her hackles rise, despite herself.

‘We do well enough.’ She said coldly, aiming her words to sting. ‘I daresay _just_ as well as you and Mary...’

Abe’s head jerked up. He hadn’t even _heard_ her, Anna realised. He was too busy looking at something else in the tavern.

‘Anna-‘

 _‘What?_ ’

She turned around, half-impatient.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_‘You son of a pox-ridden Dutch whore-‘_

DeJong’s face was slow to change. At first, he looked around with shocked incredulity, scarcely believed what he’d heard. But just as his face began to change from astonishment to anger –

The shocked groan from the crowd was what made Anna turn.  Selah had punctuated his sentence with a closed-fist punch that sent his neighbour flying.

Anna’s hands flew to her mouth. She swore, aloud, before diving into the throng.

‘Anna! Annie, wait! I’ll –‘

 

Have you ever seen a schoolyard scuffle, from far off? It’s nothing but a sea of swarming, agitated human bodies, nothing but crowd and noise and shrieks. Tragedy is nearly always a spectator-sport; something that people are drawn to, if only to say: they were _there_. They’d _seen_ it.

The autumn night merriment had descended into a cacophony of sound; yells and cries as people hurried to get out of the way of the brawl, came in ready to tear them apart – or the drunken louts who pressed closer, eager for fisticuffs. Anna couldn’t tell which was which.

‘ _Selah!’_

‘Woss’ this about, then?’

‘Dunno. Strong’s gone crazed!’

‘On DeJong? What for?’

‘Don’t just stand there! Tear ‘em apart, for goodness sake!’ An anxious woman’s voice said, somewhere in the crowd.

 _For the love of sweet Christ... **someone** stop them, _ Anna prayed inwardly. She caught a glimpse of the fight, between shoulders and perukes; Selah had a knee pressed on DeJong’s chest to hold him down, hands about the frightened Dutchman’s throat-

 **_‘_ ** _Selah, no! Don’t **-’**_

 

He couldn’t have heard her, surely? Not above the shouts of the crowd. But something made Selah turn his head as though distracted, his grip slacken on DeJong’s throat-

And DeJong, purple-face, choking, frightened for his life, made one last desperate plunge, like a dying whale, trying to throw Selah off-

Selah was caught off balance. And for all DeJong was portly, he wasn’t a weak man. Years behind the plough had meant his bulk had served him in good stead.  Caught off guard, he fell backwards towards the fireplace, headlong-

_Crack._

Years – scores of years later, when Anna was an old, old woman – she still couldn’t hear the sound of an egg breaking without a tiny, inward shudder.

The noise Selah’s skull made as it struck the sharp fender had sounded just like that.

The was a shocked intake of breath.

 

* * *

 

 

And that was it, according to the farmer. Just like that, Anna had lost a husband, in a bloom of blood like a halo on the inn parlour floor. Amidst the sounds of a panicked crowd and calls for soldiers, the horrified protestations of Mynheer DeJong that he hadn’t meant to, that the madman had tried to kill _him_ -

Lizzie broke into a run.

‘Hey! Where you goin’, Miss?’ The farmer called after her, evidently disappointed. ‘I was goin’ to find Magistrate Woodhull. It;s a matter for the judge and the major. Now it’s _murder...’_


	17. Death by Misadventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quality of mercy becomes a little strained in Setauket...

_‘Man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority,_

_Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,_

_His glassy essence, like an angry ape,_

_Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven_

_As makes the angels weep..._

_Authority, though it err like others,_

_Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself_

_That skins the vice o’th’top. Go to your bosom_

_Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know...’_

Measure for Measure, Act II, Scene II

It would normally have been dark in Setauket by the time Lizzie arrived back in town. There was usually no more light than the feeble flicker of an un-shuttered door country towns rarely had torch-bearers or invitingly lit shop windows. Country folk go to bed early, to save their candles for work. But tonight – tonight, Setauket had been transformed into some sort of goblin-town, a-flicker with weaving knots of torchlight and morbid interest. There was a large press of people buzzing excitedly about outside the Strong Tavern – and it was testament to the uproar Mr Strong’s death had caused that some of them were only half-dressed, mantles and coats bundled hastily over nightshirts. Some of the women even held small sleepy children in their arms, or balanced nimbly on one hip.

They should be careful, Lizzie thought uneasily, casting a glance towards the encampment. Gatherings like this were only reserved for riot, insurrection and public hangings - and there had been no riots or hangings. _Not **yet,** anyway_ , a grim little voice said, at the back of Lizzie’s head. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought.

There was a gleam of dour excitement flickering from face to face through the crowd, even amongst the sober landowners and their demure wives. There had been sensational tragedy in their midst, and now there would be appropriate public punishment. It was fitting, according to the common sense of things. It was _right_.

Right or not, they might at least have had the decency to keep the _children_ away, Lizzie thought with disgust, as she made her way through the crowd, narrowly side-stepping two small girls chasing each other up and down the square. Setauket was the sort of place where everyone knew everyone. Granted, there were always people who brought children to executions in towns like Boston or York city, but...

But in a large town, it would simply be the casual interest of strangers. DeJong had been a _neighbour_ to most of these people...

That everyone had gathered here, eager to see and hear this strange aftermath of the murder?

 Something about it all appalled her.

As she moved closer to the tavern, there was a gaggle of grubby-faced little boys gathered near the Strong root cellar where the casks were stored, kicking at the cellar door with their boots and shrieking with laughter. Two grim-faced men stood guard, muskets held with easy familiarity in the crook of their shoulders.

As Lizzie moved closer, she could hear pounding coming from the cellar. And a dim sort of sobbing that she could hardly bear.

‘Who – who’s in there?’ Lizzie already knew the answer. But she had to ask. ‘Is... is that-‘

One of the farm boys squinted briefly at her. ‘It’s the _murderer_ , innit?’ he said, scornful of Lizzie’s ignorance. ‘We’re just waiting for the soldiers now. An’ then-’  he aimed a small kick at the wooden door. ‘We’re going to string old DeJong up like a _fat_ Christmas goose...’

Lizzie paled. She almost backed away from the little boy’s glee, stumbling a little over her cloak as she turned back towards the inn. Poor Jenneke, she thought, in a flash of added pain. What would Jenneke do if her father-

 The crowd had thickened around the tavern door. Someone had drawn the shutters closed on the lower windows, but that hadn’t stopped people trying to peer in – as though the Strong tavern was now a peepshow, or some dismal house of horrors.

 _Ghouls,_ Lizzie thought savagely to herself, edging her way through the crowd. Scrabbling excitedly about over a dead man –

Part of her still didn’t believe it. Selah Strong had seemed eternal. Perhaps it was all some horrible joke, and he was filling cups in the snuggery -

The tavern door still stood wide open, practically inviting passers-by to poke their heads in- but none of the crowd had ventured across the tavern threshold. Lizzie couldn’t work out why at first, until she saw Jordan’s tall silhouette outlined in the lamplight, Selah’s heavy blackthorn stick in both hands.

She hesitated. There had always been a flinty, closed-off look in Jordan’s face that did not encourage conversation or friendship. He made an intimidating figure.

She took a step forward.

‘Uh-uh.’ Jordan rose lazily from his position, barring her way. ‘Tavern’s closed.’

‘I heard what happened-’Lizzie began.

‘A lot of folks in Setauket have.’ Jordan jerked his head coolly towards the crowd. ‘Guess you’ll have to just stay outside, like they do. No-one’s coming in here until the soldiers get here. And that judge-’ He turned away, evidently bored by the conversation.

Lizzie caught at his sleeve. ‘What about Anna? How is she?’ she said, desperately.

‘Mrs Strong?’ Jordan shrugged her off. ‘Her man’s dead. Head busted open.  How would _you_ be?’

‘Isn’t anyone _with_ her?’ Lizzie turned, scanning the crowd. Mrs Sampson was chattering merrily away to a crony, whilst craning her neck to get a better look through a crack in the shutter. ‘No-one to _help_?’

‘Abigail’s in there. Doin’ what she can.’ A softer look crept into Jordan’s face, on saying Abigail’s name. ‘Eli and Cicero were serving, they’re cleaning up. Laying him out.’

‘Laying him ...out?’ Lizzie’s legs felt wobbly.

 ‘Hey, steady- you all right there?’

‘I’m – I’m fine.’ Lizzie took a deep breath, calming herself. ‘I just... wanted to know. That’s all.’

Jordan was still looking at her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

‘You’re the first to ask how Mrs Strong’s doin’, you know?’ he said. ‘None of these buzzards have.’ He threw a contemptuous look at the Setauket crowd, ‘Them - they’re just here for the blood. _You_ ain’t here for that.’

‘It was a stupid question.’ Lizzie said dully.

‘Yeah.’ Jordan said bluntly. ‘It was. But you’re the first who cared enough to _ask_.’ He shifted his grip on the blackthorn stick. ‘Can’t let you in _this_ way. Everyone’d be wanting to get in.’

Lizzie shoulders sagged - before her ears caught up with what he’d said. ‘ _This_ way?’

 ‘Kitchens door’s on the latch,’ Jordan said gruffly. He flicked his gaze indifferently away from her when she tried to meet his eye. ‘If you was to sneak in around the back, I don’t figure anyone would notice.’

Lizzie realised this was a concession – and no small concession, at that. ‘Thank you,’ she said fervently.

‘Huh.’ Jordan stared across the yard. ‘Don’t thank _me_.’ He paused. ‘Abbie said you was all right. That means you’re good with me.’

And that, it seemed, was it. End of conversation. Jordan went back to staring blankly ahead over the heads of the crowd, all of Setauket entirely beneath his notice.

 _“Abbie”,_ eh? The little voice that noticed things in the back of Lizzie’s head murmured in interest, as she crept around the corner. _That_ was a soft name to use, from such a seemingly stony man as Jordan. _Smoke and mirrors, again_ , Lizzie thought. Everyone used them to hide behind, from things they were afraid of – or afraid for, in Jordan’s case.

 The door was on the latch, and lifted easily when Lizzie pushed at it. She bolted it twice behind her, shutting out the noise of the crowd as firmly as she could.

 She wasn’t sure what she expected, going in. 

Not the _silence_.  

The silence was oppressive. You could almost taste it in the air – a harsh, suffocating tang that made Lizzie’s stomach clench, like a sharp hand drawing her stay-laces too tight...

 A memory from when she was four years old resurfaced. It was an old, unpleasant thing, that bobbed at her in the dark like a jack o’ lantern when Lizzie remembered. An undertaker, in dusty black who smelt of stale tobacco . A drawn grey face; sunken and strange to her, though it had once been her mama. And so still, so still, with the white cap knotted closely about her chin, and the winding sheet-

 ‘Anna?’ Anything was better than standing alone in the deserted kitchen thinking of _that_. ‘Anna, it’s me! It’s Liz-‘

 

Anna was sat in the little cubbyhole that had been Selah Strong’s office, staring indifferently at the business ledgers on the desk.

‘Hello.’ She said tonelessly, tugging her shawl closer around her shoulders, and then turned her head, staring at the books again.

 Lizzie didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. What use were _words_? Anything she thought of to say – _I just heard, I’m so sorry_ – they were just hollow platitudes. Worthless, flimsy things, like bits of paper bowling along in a strong wind.

_I just heard. I’m so sorry._

‘They’ve sent for the magistrate. And the soldiers.’ Anna’s voice caught. ‘To  _investigate_.’

‘There’s no neighbours with you?’ A throb of anger ran through Lizzie. **Why** wasn’t there anyone else?

 ‘Abe – I mean, Mr Woodhull – he would have stayed. But with his wife, he had to-‘ Anna looked down, a lump in her throat. ‘He couldn’t leave her alone too long.’

Lizzie pulled up a small stool, crouching near Anna’s skirts like a child about to learn her ABC. She would have liked to put out a hand, but she remembered Mary Woodhull’s brittle sharpness, and the way she waved off consolation. _Mr Woodhull wouldn’t find a comfortable fireside at Whitehall, either,_ she thought, silently. _For all he’d scuttled off and turned tail, like a rat._

  Lizzie listened agonizingly to the crackle of the fire in the next room and filling the silence in her head with a legion of “ _sorrys”._ _Perhaps I can’t help. ,_ she thought. _There’s no help for this. But I can at least stay with her._ _She needs someone..._

 ‘I can’t cry.’ Anna said suddenly, after what seemed like an eternity of silence. ‘I’ve tried you know? I could feel them all, looking on, wondering – “ _why doesn’t she cry_?” and Selah there, bloody at my feet –‘ She unwrapped the shawl she’d been holding tightly around her.  Lizzie tried not to recoil. Mrs Strong’s apron-front and dress bodice were stiff and crackling with crusted dried blood. Her hands, usually so steady, were starting to tremble.  ‘I tried to lift him up, to help him, but...’ Her voice trailed off.

She might not have been weeping. But there are different kinds of hurt, and Anna was washed up somewhere on the shores of deadened realisation, marooned on an icy island of her own grief with nothing but frozen seas around her. Lizzie understood that, even if she couldn’t put it into words.

She didn’t hesitate to put out a hand – both hands - to Anna.

‘Is there anything you need me to do?’ she faltered. ‘Can I – I get you anything?’

And there was the difference. Unlike Mary Woodhull, who pushed away, affronted at the offer of help or even fellow feeling, Anna took the sentiment as it was meant; kindly. She squeezed Lizzie’s hands as though the pressure comforted her.

 ‘What’s there to do?’ she asked, tiredly.

 ‘ _I’ll_ stay with you,’ Lizzie said. ‘I will. I’ll _help-‘_ Her eyes fell to the front of Anna’s dress, horribly drawn to the terrible spread of red-brown that marked the linen apron. _‘_ Where – where is... he?’

‘Selah?’ Anna’s hands were beginning to shake in earnest as she smoothed her skirts; a first sign of thawing ice within her. ‘He’s on the parlour table. It seemed best to –‘

She choked, a little. Swayed.

‘Lizzie, I don’t think I _can_ -‘

The front door opened.

‘Magistrate’s here, ‘Jordan’s deep voice said, through the crack. ‘Along with the soldier an’ the major. You want me to let him in?’

Anna’s face went grim. The ice froze again, hard as stone. She sat back down in her seat, throwing her shawl about her shoulders.  

‘Go on then,’ she said, gritting her teeth at the imminent intrusion of pompous King George’s justice.

 ‘Let them come.’

 

* * *

 

Murder, Major Hewlett decided irritably, was a most _inconvenient_ business. Ignoring the usual moral side of the equation of course. Yes, it was generally reprehensible - but it was quite _deplorable_ that someone had made the inconsiderate decision to murder a Setauket citizen in the _evening._ A proper murder should certainly have happened in the daytime. During business hours, as it were.

 _After_ business hours, Hewlett’s worsted slippers would be warming by the fire, thoughtfully placed there by Aberdeen. There was a warming glass of Richard Woodhull’s Madeira awaiting his attention, too – and, he thought, with annoyance and regret, there was an especially inviting copy of Gregory’s excellent _Optica Promota_ waiting forlornly on his desk, the mystery of the transit of Venus left to go hang for the sake of some petty village brawl.

Blast these... these _little_ people! Hewlett thought, uncharitably, in the privacy of his head. Of course, he would have to preside; insurrection, even of the mildest kind, was the sort of thing that needed closer scrutiny in the colonies. And the army _was_ supposed to act as a restorative measure.

Hum. That raised a thought.

‘This didn’t involve any of our _men_ , did it?’ He said sharply to Corporal Easton. Easton, as senior officer, had taken it upon himself to be an oily Lord Chamberlain, translating common men and their actions to his commander.

‘No sir!’

‘Oh. Good.’ Hewlett sniffed. ‘I tell you, if I hear another account of disorder, it will go _hard_ with Captain Joyce. He should keep better order amongst the men – and his _officers_ , no less! They should set an example-’

‘Wasn’t anything to do with our lads, sir, officer _or_ private. Argy-bargy at the Strong Tavern, sir.  ’

Hewlett exhaled. ‘Well. That’s _something_ , at least.’ He wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Get Kennock down here, would you? I want this done _properly_.’

Easton looked at the major strangely. ‘There’s a man dead, sir. Don’t think the doctor can help much-‘

‘I am _aware_ of that, corporal!’ Hewlett snapped tersely. ‘We will _need_ to examine the body. In an... official capacity. Besides, Kennock’s bone idle most of the time. It’ll do him good to exercise his profession for once-’

‘Thought bodies was for undertakers and crows, sir.’

Was that a jeering note in the man’s voice? Major Hewlett bridled – but the corporal had already stepped smartly off, every step oozing soldierly obedience and concern. 

‘Right-you-are-sir. Doctor. Off to get him.’

 ‘Major?’ Richard Woodhull’s hand was laid on his sleeve.

The magistrate had kept step with the military party’s haste once word had reached them. He said nothing, but he saw much, with his lawyer’s eye. It was something Hewlett was often grateful for. A second voice of authority did much – and it was pleasant to have a fellow as convivial as the magistrate. He was _very_ helpful, for instance, in small matters of property disposal when it came to attainders. ‘If I might have a word... is this not more a matter for _common_ law?’

‘Common law?’ Hewlett said, bemused. ‘Richard, I appreciate your advice. As always, I hope you understand. But  we _are_ common law in a place like this. This isn’t a place for your farmer-constables, or mob justice. When’s the last time anything like _murder_ touched a place like Setauket?’

‘Not in living memory, praise God!’ the magistrate said grimly. ‘Last act of violence was ’64, when George Evesham shot Elias Whittle in the leg – and that was by accident, as it turned out...’ He grew thoughtful. ‘We had to send for more men from Frog’s Neck just to sit at the hearing.’

‘There, you see?’ Hewlett said briskly. ‘I do have another aim in mind too.’ He dropped his voice to a confidential undertone. ‘Untimely as this is – my presence may act as a show of our goodwill. Engaging in the affairs of the populace? I think this can only endear us to your Setauket folk-.’

 ‘Yes, but...’ Magistrate Woodhull hesitated. ‘The army’s presence could be considered ...interfering, by some of the more dissident elements-‘

‘Interfering?!’ Hewlett stopped mid-stride, swelling with indignation. ‘Who is _interfering?_ And what dissident elements, pray, are still left in Setauket? You told me things have never been better since we were stationed here!’

‘They _are-‘_ Richard Woodhull said, soothingly. ‘Indeed they are, Major. That seditious preacher fellow gone, and a half-dozen trouble-makers removed from among us...’

‘Then who would consider us _interfering_?’

Easton jogged up, red-faced. ‘Kennock’s comin’, Sir. Bringin’ his doctor’s box. Lieutenant Simcoe asked if he’ll be required, sir-‘

‘What?’ It was subtle, in the flickering torchlight, but the Major made a face of distaste that he couldn’t quite repress. ‘No. No, he will _not_. He can keep to his bed with his – head-cold, isn’t it? Appleton will do quite as well.’

Easton still hovered. ‘Er.... begging your pardon sir, but the lieutenant did say he’d studied law at Oxford, and if you _needed_ legal knowledge-’

 _If you don’t know how to handle it_ , Easton’s expression suggested. It was a pale copy of the subtly sneering expression Hewlett knew very well from Lieutenant Simcoe.

 ‘I have a _magistrate_.’ Hewlett said frostily. ‘That will _do_ , corporal. You are dismissed.’

He adjusted his cloak . The crowd in the town square had drawn back, visibly subdued by their arrival. A hangdog crowd of young ruffians who had been letting out whoops of shrill glee fell silent –boys again rather than little savages, running back to the protection of their mothers’ skirts.

 ‘A word of caution, Major. Before you go in there-’ A look of distaste flickered across the magistrate’s face. ‘I have...aha, a less than _congenial_ professional acquaintance with the Strongs. If you’ll recall, I was pressing you about that bill of attainder on the man’s property-‘

‘What?’ Hewlett said distractedly. He was watching Easton slouch off, no very generous sentiments regarding his junior officers pounding through his head. A vague recollection of papers being thrust eagerly at him surfaced. ‘This is hardly the _time_ , Richard-‘

‘This is the _only_ time. Our efforts in this matter will go for nothing, if the attainder isn’t served now. The estate will go to some younger brother – doubtless of rebel sympathies - and the Crown loses what should rightfully be provisioning honest, _loyal_ men. _Good_ men .Such as yourself, Major.’

For the first time, the insinuation in Judge Woodhull’s voice reached its target – but not in the way he had intended.  Hewlett recoiled a little. ‘Good God, Richard, are you _suggesting_ -‘

There are some things men may wink at comfortably, on a full stomach and an easy conscience. Richard Woodhull had persuaded himself over the years that a few things could be slipped under the table, with a complacent eye on the profits – farming and justice both. He had forgotten that Hewlett wasn’t quite as acquiescent in such things as other military men.

‘Not without your permission.’ He said quickly, anxious to change the look of faint revulsion flitting across the major’s face. ‘I would merely suggest that there is a legal loophole until the man is, in fact, declared _dead_ by the doctor. Serve the attainder now, and much is saved-‘

 Hewlett took a step back, withdrawing his arm from the magistrate’s grasp. ‘I am not going to argue this with you _now_ , Richard, on a dead man’s doorstep.’ He stamped his boots pointedly in the direction of the looming house-servant at the door, who took the hint and vanished into the house.

‘Whatever decision I arrive at will be _duly ...considered.’_

* * *

 

In later years, Hewlett was to wonder: what would have happened if, as in so many other cases, he had merely complied? Richard Woodhull had always been the Virgil to his Dante, so to speak; his local guide through the strange new world of the colonies. _Here_ is a firm ally; _there_ is a suspected foe.... His speeches had always guided Edmund through the small-town complexities of Setauket life, and had always been couched in such comfortable tones of reason and friendship that it would have been churlish not to see his point of view.

But there was something unusually hasty in the judge’s reasoning tonight. Something a little – unpleasantly self-serving, in his eagerness, perhaps. Edmund had never noticed it before, but there it was – and it was difficult to ignore, once seen.

He couldn’t help it – he found himself staring a little harder at the sour expression on Richard Woodhull’s face, uneasily trying to puzzle it out. Which was why, on entering the Strong tavern, he did not immediately take in the mournful tableau before him.

 The empty shell of Selah Strong lay on a wooden deal table. He had often scrubbed ale-stains from it in life; it seemed soberly fitting that it serve him in death. A thrice-darned old inn table-cloth had hastily been thrown over his body and drawn up to his chest, to give the make-shift bier a more respectable look. Guttering candle stubs from the tables had been arranged about the head and feet, softening the outlines a little in a glow of candlelight.

Dismal though the sight was, the major wasn’t discomposed by the sad remnants laid out so starkly amongst the discarded ale-mugs and tankards of his trade. Death wasn’t a stranger, however rudely he knocked at Life’s door. He had _expected_ the corpse. 

 

The widow, however, he had not.  

 

From the little the magistrate had revealed (and the agitated, over-familiar gabbling of his son about ‘Annie’ from time to time) Hewlett had expected the usual figure of an innkeeper’s wife – some stout woman running to seed from an over-abundance of children and good food.  

 

He had not expected dignity. Or youth. 

Mrs Strong was young; far t _oo_ young to be a widow. Grief itself stared back at him with dark, glittering eyes that were half-wild with barely-contained pain, a tendril of dishevelled hair soft as a stroke of charcoal across her face.  

Andromache,  Hewlett thought, with a pang of compassionate recognition that startled him with its intensity. That was who she looked like.  Or at least, how he had always imagined her - sad Andromache of Troy, dark robes drawn about her, bracing herself against inevitable sorrow and tragedy. The close air of the tavern gave way to a faint suggestion of cypress leaves against the backdrop of ancient Troy, the desolate sound of women weeping... 

An old snippet of The Iliad was dislodged from a schoolboy corner of Hewlett’s mind, the words rising unbidden to his lips. 

 

 _‘In vain; alas! Her lord returns no more;_  

 _Unbathed he lies, and bleeds along the shore._  

 

It was as though she had stepped out of Homer to reproach him, hands held out in a mute plea for mercy...

 Richard, however, seemed utterly unmoved by the poignancy of the sight. He let out a brief, irritated snort.  

‘It is hardly the done thing, keeping a magistrate and an officer waiting on the doorstep with your bully boy out there as guard,’ he said shortly.  

All at once, Mrs Strong’s eyes hardened. She moved closer to the trestle, as though shielding her husband’s body from the magistrate’s open hostility. It was an involuntary, protective gesture that touched the major to the quick. 

 

‘Magistrate.’ She said, her face expressionless. And then, as though gingerly stirring a cockroach with the toe of her shoe, _‘Major._ ’ It seemed to soothe her, as though by naming them she could dispel their power.

 With a jolt, Hewlett came back down from his classical reverie at the note of pure loathing in her voice.  He opened his mouth, strangely wounded.

‘Well, we are here now-'  he said uneasily. Why did his voice sound so jarringly inappropriate to his own ears? He had meant it to sound soothing, but it sounded patronising; the honeyed voice you might use to a fractious child. It earned him a look that scorched him with inward shame.  ‘And may I be the first to offer my – my _sincere_ condolences on your husband’s-‘ 

Magistrate Woodhull coughed meaningfully, interrupting the major mid-flow. Hewlett turned to look incredulously at the man.  Good God, was Richard _serious_ about that attainder business? But the man’s jaw was set, his eyes hard.

 

‘Oh, you needn’t offer sentiments you don’t mean, sir,’ Mrs Strong said, in a voice rippling with bitterness. ‘I assure you, the good magistrate here has no qualms about showing his _honesty_ -’

‘Impertinence towards the major will do you no good, madam _.’_ Judge Woodhull said severely, in what Hewlett recognised as his severest voice from the magistrates bench. ‘ We have had reason to believe that this is a house that nurses rebellious feeling towards authority before – and now we see proof plain of it, in your very attitude-‘

‘Magistrate, if I _may_ -‘ Hewlett interjected. Both widow and judge ignored him.

‘In my **_attitude_**!’ Mrs Strong’s hands had balled into clenched fists. ‘My husband is **dead**!  Could you not have let us alone for even a little while before- ’ She gestured, helplessly, before the uselessness of it all. ‘No. No, you couldn’t, could you, judge?’

‘I am a man of duty, ma’am. And I follow my course in law to the letter. ‘And I have no course but, in the light of the Strong Tavern being a clear place of dissent, to serve this _attainder_ -‘

‘ _What?_ ’ The look of pure despair on Mrs Strong’s face was like a kick in the ribs. ‘You have no cause to do this-‘

‘I have every cause, ma’am, as you doubtless know.’

‘ _Please-‘_

‘The law is not a matter of “please” and “thank-you”, ma’am. ‘

Any doubts Hewlett might have had before, were dispelled now. Sheer shock at the audacity – and indeed, the brutal _ruthlessness_ of what Richard was about to do had left him speechless. He knew vaguely, from things the servants said or didn’t say, that there had been some unfortunate history between the magistrate and the Smiths. But that had, as Hewlett had thought, had been a business between gentlemen. To carry on a vendetta on unoffending relations – and worse, an unprotected, bereaved lady without a voice to speak in her defence...

Enough was _enough._

 _‘Magistrate!’_ He barked _. ‘Enough,_ sir!’

This time, he actually secured their attention. They both looked mildly taken aback.

‘I _think_ Mr Woodhull has forgotten propriety, in this case.’ Hewlett said sharply. He turned, with a gentler tone, towards the bewildered Mrs Strong. ‘Rest assured, madam, we are not here to serve any writ upon you or your late husband. We are here to examine into the cause of his death. And **only** that.’ He added, severely, with a glance at the impatient countenance of the magistrate. ‘You have my word on that point.’

Mrs Strong looked dazed. She shook her head, as though trying to clear it, before darting a strange, almost disbelieving look in Major Hewlett’s direction.

‘I – I thank you, sir.’ She said shakily, inclining her head towards him. 

‘Major – Major...’ Magistrate Woodhull sighed impatiently, as Hewlett took him aside.  ‘I think you overlook the _finer_ legal implications here -’

‘I overlook nothing, sir!’ Hewlett said savagely, between clenched teeth. He kept his voice low. ‘What the... what the _devil_ do you mean by this mockery of a proceeding?! Did I not clearly tell you that there would be none of this? And you _deliberately_ –‘

‘For your own good, Major.’ Magistrate Woodhull said placatingly. ‘All for your own good. This isn’t cruelty on my part, Edmund. This is justice – and it _is_ sometimes unpleasant. I have tried to shield you from some of the  - the harsher realities here in Setauket, but sometimes we must do what, under normal circumstances, would be-‘

‘ _Unpardonable.’_ Hewlett said with marked emphasis. Some part of Richard Woodhull rang unaccountably false to him now. Perhaps it was that patronising note in his voice; Hewlett had heard _that_ too many times. And he had heard him address the phrase ‘all for your own good’ to young Abraham, upon some paltry money matter. Did he think he could use Hewlett the same way?  

 

There was much Hewlett could, and would, endure. But the idea that he had been used by the magistrate for his own advantage grew strong, and his spirit rose in rebellion against it.

 

‘We would have served the attainder in any case, dead or not-‘

 _‘”We?!”’_ Hewlett’s nostrils went white. ‘I told you I would be no party to this, Richard. I said NO.  There is no “we”.’

The servants (and what Hewlett thought was the white dimity cap of Mr Lowndes’ daughter) were peering in from the kitchen, alarmed by the raised voices.

‘Edmund, think rationally. You’re letting niceties get in the way of business. And it’s all but done, in any case-‘

But damn it all, Hewlett was not going to retract now. He had come too far to acquiesce.

‘You forget, Mr Woodhull .’ The major said, with pinpoints of furious colour in his pale cheek, ‘that an attainder requires _two_ signatures. One from the magistrate, and one from the officer in charge -’ He plucked the piece of parchment from Mr Woodhull’s hand. To his horror, when he glanced down, he did see his own signature scrawled carelessly across the bottom of the paper. He must have signed it this afternoon, without looking at what he was signing away.

 

How many times had he done that before? Hewlett wondered. Barely glanced at the form, accepted Richard’s explanation – and left it there. Had there been other cases like this?

He hurled the crumpled-up attainder into the fire, self reproach adding an extra sting to his words as he turned to the magistrate.

 ‘You are not the sole representative of law and order here, sir. And from what I’ve seen here, that charge is perhaps misplaced. There is entirely too _much_ prejudice in your manner to suit a magistrate.’

Richard Woodhull was white-lipped with fury. But he kept his voice under control, if sharp.

‘You grow offensive, Major. That is not a charge to be made lightly, and I shall- ’

‘If there is any offence to be taken, _sir,_ ’ Hewlett said stiffly, ‘It is by Mrs Strong. This pointless wrangling accords ill with the place. Or the time.’

They both glared at each other, neither giving an inch .

It was perhaps for the best that the hostile silence was punctuated by a rap on the door.

‘Sir?’ Easton’s voice ventured. ‘Kennock’s here, if you want him.’

 

‘Selah Strong’s dead. There’s no doubt about that.’ Kennock said bluntly. He gently turned the face of the dead man, so the dark hair and the clotted, stick mass of black blood at the back of his head showed. ‘See that? Tremendous force. The skull at the occipital curve is all but-‘

‘Yes _, thank_ you, Doctor.’ Hewlett said hastily, looking abashedly in Mrs Strong’s direction. They had tried to (tactfully) clear the room, but Anna had refused to move, instead stepping forward and taking her husband’s cold hand in her own as though the man were still alive. As though she could still protect him from harm.

It smote the major hard, under his waistcoat. Like a physical pain in the chest.

But, it at least underlined the point, Major Hewlett thought, casting an angry look over his shoulder at Richard Woodhull. The magistrate stood sulking by the fireplace. He had resolutely turned his face away from the medical examination – particularly when Kennock had unrolled his bundle of instruments to select a pointed, wicked looking silver thing. Good, the major thought, bitterly. Men who use such small loopholes of law to their own mean advantage should see what it meant.

‘Well,’ Kennock said bluntly, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘What more d’ you want me to say, Major? The man’s _dead_. Head’s like an over-ripe orange.’

‘We know that, man! ‘ Hewlett said irritably. ‘The question is: was it _murder?_ ’

 Anna made a small, choking noise in the back of her throat as two burly redcoats hauled in a dishevelled Martyn DeJong, hands hastily roped together.  Sheer terror had completely unmanned the Dutchman. His light-brown wig was askew, his face  swollen with panic-stricken tears and horror. He babbled in a fast-flowing mixture of Dutch and English, the major barely catching more than a word like ‘please – madman – I did _not_ -‘

‘But you did strike the blow, hmm?’ Magistrate Woodhull said sharply. ‘The fatal blow? I’d say half of Setauket will swear to that, given how many of them have were present tonight.’ A displeased nerve moved in the corner of his mouth. ‘Including my _son_ , I noticed.’

‘Please..!’ Marytn DeJong’s face had gown ashen. Clearly in his mind’s eye, he was already stood on a wooden gallows, the hemp rope about his head like a “Newgate halo.”

‘It wasn’t him, sir.’ Anna spoke aloud, as though to the magistrate, but her eyes moved past him to the Major, as the sympathetic voice of power in the room. ‘It – it was the fender –‘ she pointed to the fireplace. ‘He fell, and _struck_ -‘Her hand went unconsciously to the back of her own head.

Major Hewlett saw her tremble, as she realised her own action, He scurried across the room, timidly laying one hand on her sleeve for an instant.

‘Don’t think of it, ma’am,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I beg you – _don’t_ think of it.’

‘How am I not to?’ Anna said hollowly.

‘There’s horror enough this night.’ Hewlett said firmly. ‘You’ve been brave enough, madam – for your husband’s sake, don’t remember him that way...’

‘Ah!’ Kennock turned, his voice filled with a scientist’s satisfaction. ‘Yes, this would do it. It wouldn’t take much, a man falling on his back here; and look at how the stones are marked! Yes, this is where he died.’ He crouched down, eying the iron fender with a critical eye. ‘If it’s any consolation, ma’am,  it would have been instant.’ He looked up, eyeing Mr DeJong with evident disfavour.  ‘In my _professional_ opinion, Major, you can let that blubbering fellow go. The tale’s as he and your witnesses say – dead by misadventure, at best.’

‘ _What?_ ’ Mr Woodhull spoke up sharply. ‘But you heard! By his own confession, the man’s responsible!’

‘Oh, he’s _responsible_.’ Kennock said coolly. Magistrate or Major, neither man seemed to overawe him much. ‘And he’ll have to square that with his conscience, one way or another, over the years. But guilty in a court of _law_? I think you’ll find that’s another thing. Any man here could have done as much in a tavern crush.’

 ‘I think I must concur, Richard,’ Major Hewlett said reasonably. ‘From what Kennock says, and the testimony of the witnesses, including Mrs Strong...’

‘Hmph.’ Mr Woodhull made a gruff noise in the back of his throat. ‘As _you_ say, Major.’ He said, ungraciously. ‘I suppose I’m too _prejudiced_ for my opinion to matter much to you, but...’ He grudgingly cast an eye over the fender and the dark smear of blood on the hearthstones. ‘I have to agree. Death by misadventure.’

‘Death by misadventure.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Roman Idyll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658238) by [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray), [MontmartreParapluie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontmartreParapluie/pseuds/MontmartreParapluie)




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